Jonathan Trigell - The Tongues of Men or Angels

James has publicly called Annas ben Annas a sack-swollen tick, bloated from feeding, the blood of others swirling within translucent stretched skin. A ruler who oppresses the poor is like a dustbowl wind that obliterates crops. James says that Annas and all the rich should weep for the miseries that are going to come upon them once Yeshua returns. But some in Jerusalem already tire of waiting for Yeshua’s return and call for his brother to be anointed in his stead.

A hooded crow, black but for its tunic of grey chainmail, lands clumsily in James’s path and stares at him, one-eyed, with a twisted head.

It is not because of the bird, but James senses that something is wrong. Is this premonition, or does he subconsciously spot subtleties too small to define, imperceptible differences on the courtyard that lead to his stomach so rapidly sickening with a feeling of ill?

James crouches a moment, as if struck by a sudden need to pray, but he does it rather to take pause on his route and have a guarded look about. He sees nothing amiss, but whispers scripture anyway:

‘ For man knows not when his hour will come;

As fish are caught in a cruel net ,

And birds are snared with a noose ,

So are the sons of man trapped in an evil time ,

When it falls suddenly upon them .’

James takes a further vigilant sweep. The bright white marble and burnished-gold Temple — wider at the front than at the back, like a prone lion — glows with glory. Low murmurs of prayers drift about. And the incomprehensible chatter from clusters of foreigners, words that sound like whoops and hoots and yelps. The tang of rich incense on the air. Stallholders shout and beasts bleat. People gaze in wonder, looking serious and worshipful. Others gossip as if by a village well. A nose-tied bull raises a suddenly rigid tail, a right-angle removal, to defecate with audible exhalation. And two small brothers laugh to witness it, as James and Yeshua might once have done. Pilgrims meander with pale palms held out before them, as if they carry invisible loads. Men nod gravely as they encounter those notices that warn of the death deserved by Gentile trespassers past that point; they physically acknowledge as if outwardly to declare that they understand and agree and that the penalty does not apply to them. An Ethiope limps by, one foot held out sideways, slowed by some ailment. And in the shades of the outer colonnades, merchants spit on their hands to seal deals. Wealthy men, most of them, who will howl when Yeshua returns. For the sun rises with scorching heat and withers the plant; its blossom falls and its beauty is destroyed. In the same way, the rich will fade away even while they go about their business. But for the moment they are engrossed and pay no attention to the kneeling apostle. Neither can James see anything else to account for why he should feel so suddenly fearful. There is not even a single Temple Guard in sight.

And, as James thinks this, the realization sinks, because there should be. He becomes conscious that the thing he senses is in fact an absence: there are no Temple Guards to be seen. When there should be. There always are. And if they cannot be seen, then it means that they are unseen.

James pushes himself up and starts to make for the eastern gate. Maybe he shouldn’t have come alone, but Jochanan and Cephas are both abroad, converting the colonies of that exiled enemy, Paul, brushing away his lies, which are as fragile as spiders’ webs. And James should have nothing to fear, here in the Temple, in public. He is the Just One, a Pillar, the Rampart of the People. The Pharisees would clamour for retribution if the high priest dared to touch him.

But it seems that Annas son of Annas has decided that risk is worth it, to silence a rival and a critic, because his Temple Guards now pour forth. In two columns they troop across the courtyard. Crowds clearing before them. James flees as fast as he can, but his knees are crick and gristled from his life of prayer. The guards close and there is no doubting their purpose. James flings out with his staff to ward them back. But they grapple him; six or seven of them have him by the arms and the legs. One pulls his turban off and throws it away. James thrashes, but vainly against such numbers.

Some in the crowds cry out against the guards. But the guards just push aside such people as hinder them. They are at least three squads strong: thirty men, armed with swords and fullers’ clubs. One has a bandage, filthy as his soul, wrapped about his head. They haul James to the parapet of the eastern wall of the Temple Mount. And, as if he was but a dockside sack of grain, they heave him over.

James shrieks, like a gull in flight, as he falls. But ceases with a grunt when he hits the steep side of the Kidron. He still lives, though, as he rolls down the ravine. A herd of goats first watches, then flees the person hurtling towards it. A bundle of white linen and blood, tumbling, unable to stop itself. Eventually the body reaches the base of the valley. Even now James twitches. He cannot rise, but he tries to. It is clear he isn’t yet dead.

The Temple Guards trudge down the path towards him. And then they gather stones. Many of them haven’t been in Judaea for long but already they know: everything is about stone in this land.

While it was still dark, people poured into the Circus Flaminius. It has nothing like the capacity of that incinerated Circus Maximus, so best to arrive early to secure a decent seat. Many of the spectators have also lately taken in the Gardens of Sallust or the Gardens of Maecenas, not to admire those imperial parks but to witness the ranks of Christianoi nailed to trees therein. Or to watch those sentenced to the flames and burned, who serve as nightly illuminations.

The plebeians who made the effort to get a good view in the theatre will be well rewarded: the day’s programme promises to be rich and varied. The first chariot racing since the fire will be held today. Almost everyone in the city, from the Emperor Nero himself to the youngest child, is a passionate supporter of one of the four great charioteering stables: the reds, whites, blues and greens. But whichever of those teams will be today’s victor, that the contest takes place at all will buoy the spirits of Rome. There are also to be some legendary tableaux acted out: the death of Actaeon, hunted by his own hounds; Laureolus killed by a bear; Prometheus devoured alive; the ravishing of Pasiphaë by a bull. And you can guarantee the acting will be first rate, because the beasts will play themselves and the screams will be real.

It’s just a couple of andabatae on the programme now. No one got up early in the hope of seeing them, but the editor has a whole day to fill, and it’s all good family entertainment.

The andabatae have been goaded within earshot of one another by iron-masked Charon and his assistants. This bout’s conceit is that two elderly men have been chosen from among the ranks of the damnati : a brace of stiff-limbed old patriarchs instead of gladiators; their beards of bone-grey concealed beneath helms with no eye-holes. But, though wrinkled, withered and diminished from who they once were, they both look of a type who might have wielded a weapon when in their florescence. One is bow-legged, as if he walked half the world in his younger days; the other, a monster to make daemons afraid of the dark. They were paired to fight because the prison guards caught them in a rancorous argument, but this will be no mere battle of wits or arthritic fists: each is now armed with an evil gladius .

‘Better you die swift by the sword,’ one shouts, the enveloping visor muffling a voice deep and with the guttural quality of a Galilean. ‘Come to me and I’ll cut you cleanly. Who knows what horror awaits the victor?’