Jonathan Trigell - The Tongues of Men or Angels

Some prisoners do break, though, and can hardly be blamed for it. Some wail — whenever guards appear at the heaven of the ceiling hole — shouting that they are not of this sect, never were really of this sect, or in any case they recant. Lips spittle-flicking in their desperation, they cry that they still pray to the good gods of Rome. They say they know not who this Christ is.

The guards are immune to such pleas for clemency. Innocence is in any case irrelevant. The crime of the condemned is not that they are members of a newly arrived initiation-religion, but that they razed Rome; it is beyond improbable that any were genuinely involved, therefore all are equally guilty. Much of the city is in cinders, but the prison remains and must brim with criminals. The plebeian mass must be sated, with death and bread.

In the pit there is not even bread. For those whose gag reflexes have adjusted to the stink sufficiently to allow them to eat, there is only puls , a mashed-up corn gruel. As watery as fish-piss. But Paul performs his rites on it nonetheless. Paul tells those hallowed to share suffering in this persecution that even this gruel can become the body of the Christ and through it they will have immortality.

Some of the few Christianoi Jews prefer to eat their thin porridge without a magical blessing. But that aside, there is little separation between them and the Gentiles in this cavern-prison. All observe the Sabbath, if nobody works. Everyone keeps the dietary laws, when the only thing to eat is runny puls . And not the fiercest Judaizer would suggest a circumcision in this pit of cess and infection: it would be a death sentence. Although it has come to seem near certain that this is the fate they all now face.

After a frustrating week of waiting, while charging cargo at Tyre, the ship finally ports at Caesarea in Judaea. Though Caesarea is hardly Judaea proper: it is a predominantly pagan city now, renamed for Caesar Augustus — and furnished with a temple to him too — filled with foreigners and foreign gods, the centre of Roman administration and commerce. The seat of the prefect, although, the Feast of Weeks being near, possibly the governor is currently in Jerusalem.

Pontius Pilate, of course, is long since gone, recalled for a readiness to resort to mass slaughter, cruelty and extortion, exceptional even by Roman standards. The prefect is Marcus Antonius Felix now, a freedman who has risen to control a province, though his buoyance doubtless owes much to his brother, embroiled in imperial intrigues, said to be the lover of the Emperor Nero’s mother. Felix himself has lately married a Herodian princess.

If it were possible, Paul might have preferred to remain in this haven of Roman security but, for the sake of his mission, rapprochement with the Three Pillars must be accomplished. There are other supporters loyal to Paul in Caesarea, though; arrangements have been made, and Paul’s group is swollen by seven Gentile men from Caesarea itself and a further ten who have travelled from Cyprus with Mnason, one of Paul’s earliest disciples, converted at the court of Sergius Paulus.

They hire horses to take them to Jerusalem, pad nags, accustomed to being ridden by those unaccustomed to riding. Almost all of Paul’s previous land journeys were made on foot, but each hour grows more essential now; this is not a moment for questioning every last expense.

The ostler they rent from trades camels, too. It has been years since Paul has seen such beasts. Knees worn black from their strange crouched wait. Fur like sheep’s wool on the sides of their great chests. Faces of sad patience, deceptive faces, ready at a moment to hiss and spit. A slave boy cleans the camels’ teeth, scraping bits from between them with a green twig. The pegs of the camels’ rear spikes look carnivorous. If the Romans came across more camels, they would have myths about man-eating ones — camels that can thrive only on human flesh: that’s the sort of story Romans like.

It is an extravagant comfort to be on horseback, the mounts’ heads nodding in time to their gentle trot, flanks black and oily as cormorant feathers. And, despite some trepidation about meeting with the Pillars, it feels good to be back in Judaea.

Alongside the road are fortress cliffs of red rock, which have sheltered patriots and bandits, but there will be no fear of robbery on this trip. There is a certain sense of power, in fact, in travelling with such a large party: Silas, Timothy, Sopater, Aristarchus, Secundus, Gaius, Tychicus, Trophimus and now Mnason and seventeen others.

Neither do they fear the Asiatic lions, the symbol of Judaea but snub-nosed like Roman dogs of war, asleep under the acacia trees to escape the sun. The lions have long learned to fear man and even at night would not attack a group like this one. But at the moment it is too hot for lions to hunt at all, and the gazelles know it. They eat mockingly close by, bodies twitching, though they stand still, as if an excess of energy is squashed into their small frames. Leaf-clipping muzzles pushing into bushes. Short satyr spikes of their horns like metal styluses.

The apostle’s party passes villages. Some real, quiet and nervous. Others illusory: sand sculptures, layers hardened and built on top, like flat-roof dwellings; false streets wind-stripped between them.

Paul falls to the ground as he tries to remount after they eat by a dry-walled well. Unused to steeds, he slips and lands breathless on his back, staring at the sky. And in the moment before his companions lift him up again, he returns to a time more than twenty years ago, when he lay, like a shell-stranded tortoise, on a road outside Damascus. All he has achieved over those two decades, surely it would not have been possible were he not chosen and aided by God. Surely he can make James understand this. Beside Paul is a high thistle, spiny fronds reaching out like a beggar’s plea for coin.

Mnason has secured the group lodgings in Jerusalem in advance of their arrival. Fortunately, because the city, as usual, is beyond bloated for the festival. As soon as they are settled, before even eating, Paul dispatches Timothy to arrange parley with the Three Pillars. Timothy returns to report it done, they will meet the following morning, and he grinning bears the tale that James seemed every bit as wrong-footed by the news of their presence as Paul had hoped.

And so the two sides assemble, in the broad, bright courtyard of the house of John-Mark’s mother. Paul with Silas and Timothy, Trophimus of Ephesus and the others who came with them by sea and also Mnason of Cyprus. The Three Pillars with an entourage of elders of The Way and four younger men, long-haired and sinewy.

It has been seven years since Paul last saw Cephas, at the time of the Antioch incident, longer since he saw James and Jochanan. None of them looks so changed, but they must be: not only older, but altered.

There is none of the kissing common among reunited men of these regions. A cognized gap remains between the two groups. Paul hopes it is a space wherein the Holy Spirit might abide.

A cockerel — a fighting breed — struts about the courtyard, king of this small corner, golden-plumed, crested with a comb of flesh as red as the petals of the blood orchid. And on a paving beneath the arch of a roof a baby bird lies dead, its skin translucent, legs, not fully formed, curled uncomfortably into itself.

‘You wished for an audience with us, Saul of Tarsus,’ James begins.