The Kingdom of the Wicked (68 page)

       'The broken body of Osiris. I take it.'

       Julius could not eat. When the wine came Sara said:

       'I take this as wine. Wine is wine.'

       'The shed blood of Osiris.'

       Julius muttered: 'My Lord and my God.'

       There was a fierce barking outside. The door crashed open. This time the lictors entered, preceded by Domitian in princely raiment. Domitian said: 'This is imperial Rome, my children. Searching for Jews who evade the payment of taxes. You, old man. I've had my eye on you. Do you know anything about fish?' Julius, standing, said:

       'This is a Roman household, my lord. We give shelter briefly to an old man workless, breadless, homeless. We break no law.'

       'What's your name, old man?'

       'Matthias.'

       'Not a very Roman name. Take him. And you, whatever your name is —

       'Marcus Julius Tranquillus, former centurion, citizen of Rome.'

       'You have some explaining to do. The rest I can deal with later. Come, let's go.' Matthias, batted to the door by the fasces, forbore to bless the company. Sara spat. Domitian ignored her.

       Domitian ignored Matthias and Julius until the following day, which was also the day of Ferrex's first appearance at the games. Ferrex vomited in the morning but recovered at noon. Matthias and Julius starved in a cell until they were summoned to an interrogation room in the quaestorial offices. Domitian sat languidly with his short bow and his quiver of short arrows. The prefect Rusticanus was ready to follow the regular interrogatorial procedure; he waited for Domitian to tell him to — 'Proceed.'

       'Your name?'

       'Matthias bar Yacob.'

       'Born where?'

       'Jerusalem in the province of Judaea.'

       'You admit you are a Jew?'

       'I was born a Jew. But I do not practise the Jewish faith.'

       'What sort of life do you lead?'

       'Hurry,' Domitian said. 'I have to attend the games.'

       'What sort of life?' Matthias said. 'Blameless, I think. And without condemnation in the eyes of anyone I know.'

       'You say you were born a Jew but are no longer a Jew. What are you then?'

       'A Christian.'

       'My lord,' Rusticanus said, 'the situation has changed. The interrogation now is not in respect of this man's being a Jew.'

       'He stands doubly condemned, doesn't he?' Domitian said. 'We proceed in respect of his holding a faith condemned by the Roman state. But hurry.'

       'What are the doctrines that you practise?'

       'I've tried to become acquainted with all doctrines that men hold. But I've committed myself to the true doctrines of the Christians, even though these may not please those who hold false beliefs.'

       'Are there other Christians in this city of Pompeii?'

       'There are.'

       'You meet with them?'

       'I do.'

       'Where do you meet with them?'

       'In various places.'

       The sharp ears of Domitian caught the noise of citizens proceeding to the amphitheatre. 'Hurry, man. The games are beginning.'

       'What is that thing in your hand?'

       'A wooden cross. The symbol of my belief. My master died on the cross.'

       'What is that writing on it?'

       'Pater Noster. Our Father. Meaning my God.'

       'You believe that when you die you will rise again?'

       'I do.'

       'And if you are scourged and beheaded do you believe that you will ascend into a place called heaven?'

       'I know this. That for those who lead a just life here below the divine girt of eternal life is waiting.'

       'So you think that you'll ascend into heaven?'

       'I don't think it. I know it.'

       'Will you sacrifice to the gods of Rome in accordance with the laws of Rome?'

       'I cannot. Those gods were made by human hands. I cannot worship gods of stone and wood and metal. There is only one true God.’

       ‘Those who refuse to sacrifice to the gods are to be scourged and executed in accordance with the laws. You stand condemned.’

       ‘So be it.'

       Domitian stood. He said: 'Matthias, which is your lucky hand?’

       ‘Lucky? I don't understand you.'

       'I see that you hold that cross thing in your left hand. Is that the hand you use for holding things?'

       'Yes.'

       'Good. Are you a sporting man?'

       'Again, I don't understand.'

       'Do you have luck with the dice?'

       Matthew smiled briefly at that before replying. 'Many years ago I had luck with the dice.'

       'Good. I will give you a chance, Matthias. Take these dice and roll them.' From his beltpurse he took the carved white bones with black dots on them. He threw them on to the table. 'If the number you roll is higher than five you shall take the chance of my marksmanship with these arrows. If the number is lower than five then you die at once — with a point straight to your old cor cordium.'

       'A man doesn't play games with his — well, call it destiny.’

       ‘Take them. Roll.'

       Matthias saw Peter and the others watching, Barnabas watching most of all. He took the dice. There was a perceptible trembling below their feet and a faint smell of brimstone came in through the unshuttered window. 'Nothing, sir,' Rusticanus said. 'We sometimes get these tremors. It will pass.'

       'Roll.' Matthias rolled. Six. 'Spread your hand against the wall there. Your lucky hand.'

       'This,' Matthias said, 'is madness.' But he obeyed. Standing his good three yards back Domitian let his arrows fly. Two of them refused to impale the wall but all missed flesh.

       'Your luck, Matthias — amazing. But sometimes luck isn't enough.' And he shot an arrow straight at the old man's heart. It went deep: crimson welled on to Matthias's old grey robe. As he fell Julius ran to him. 'You — Roman centurion — are you too a Christian?'

       'I am.

       'So. We'll leave your interrogation till after the games. Shove him in a cell somewhere.' The floor trembled again; brimstone fumes sailed in. Domitian went out into the courtyard. Vesuvius belched golden fire and dribbled red lava. The dog Lupus, tethered to a post, howled bitterly and retracted his tail. 'Take your chance,' Domitian said, patting him as he unleashed him. The dog ran with limbs ill coordinated, whimpering. Domitian strode to the stables, where ostlers were wideeyed with fear and stood as if paralysed. Its coming. The horses stamped, their manes atoss, their eyes blaring, snorting and sweating. 'Quick, the piebald.' Domitian galloped alone eastwards. He had to live to become Emperor; there were many hearts to be transfixed before he died.

       Smoke, fire and lava. Lungs filled, choked. A black pall began to be pulled over the day's serenity. In the amphitheatre ten thousand Pompeians felt the ground heave, heard the thunder, saw the black pall drawn over. They screamed, yelled, crushed each other. Ferrex dropped his sword and ran. The mountain vomited endlessly. Air thick, defiled, a pale sun sometimes trying to shove through. The road of scorching lava down the mountainside spread to the streets and divided.

       I please myself, in as much as I am capable of being pleased, with an image through the smoke of Ferrex and Miriam together, scrambling through fallen bricks that raised high dust. A donkey has raced from its stable and missed being brained by a crumbling wall. Ferrex and Miriam find the donkey, Miriam mounts, perhaps Miriam and Ferrex have anticipated their knot and she is already with child. For good measure let them also find the wooden cross of Matthias, with Pater Noster upon it. Then they race off away from the disaster, carrying hope. I do not think this happened. One hopes in a sense without hope. If only that mountain could be my body, flooding out its life. But I have to wait.

       They have all gone. Accius and Acerronius Proculus and Achilles choked and crushed by a fallen roof. Gaius Acilius and Aviola Acilius and Glabrio Acilius trampled upon. Paulus Aemilius meeting Aeneas dragging Laertes from tumbling ruins. Afranius and Agrippa and Titus Ampius running, their arms held up, outlined in fire. The Aequiculi falling into hot lava. Annona and Antistius in bed together, brained by falling timbers. Aponius and Antillus and Anicetus caught in their cups, toasting each other, forced to drink fire. Epicadus Asinius straddling the body of Asillius, his back broken by the fall of a pediment. A priest calling on Osiris, another on Mithras, a deacon on the Lord Jesus. Dying Julius saying My Lord and my. Hannah and Sara choked on the floating poisons of the air. Balbillus and Bibulus and Blossus not able to get the name of the Bona Dea out of mouths silting up fast. Caesonius Priscus trampled by Cassius Longinus. Cornelius Fuscus and Corvinus and Cremutius and Clodius and Salvito and Licinius and Marcus Curtius caught naked in the baths seeing with surprise a smoking solid river lurch into the water and contrive a temperature they have not before known. Drusilla about to deliver with Domitia helping, the child ready to emerge into hell. Ennia Naeva suffocating in black and golden air. Flavia Domitilla — no, she is in Rome, safe daughter of Vespasian. Furius Maximus with his leg broken, crawling in pain to a safer place that is unsafer. Fonteius and Gabinius reading poetry while Vesuvius bellows its own and thuds with its feet to mark the rhythm. Gallius, Quintus or Marcus, stumbling with a torch through an underground tunnel to see bricks collapse at both ends, the poison meanwhile seeping in. Halotus and Hasdrubal and Hecuba and the Helvetian visitors swimming a burning tide, one last breaststroke into final fire. Hortensius and Hermogenes safe in a deep cell except for the thud of stone blocking the way out from which, to their delight, the door had fallen from its hinges. Isidorus perpetrating his final cynicism. Janus Quirinus not knowing which way to turn. Julius Marathus and Julius Saturninus and Julius Vestinus Atticus and Julius Vindex and Junia Calvina scalped by hot raking fingers, burning claws snatching out mouthfuls of teeth. Laberius and Labienus and Lactus and Livius and Lollia and Lollius and Lucceius eating on the leaf in a pleasance of poplars hearing the rattle of pebbles and then seeing the pebbles as rocks, and the rocks burning and crushing. Macro and Marcia Furnilla running to child and nurse left at home, finding the home dust, then dust themselves. Mummia and Mucia passing straight into death during an afternoon nap. Nonius and Norbanus and Novius Niger and the elder Nymphidius eating hot lava, seeing the red blast of volcanic triumph through the darkness suddenly swept off by the hot wind, not seeing the outer darkness any more. The Oculata sisters resigned, stiff in each other's arms as the blundering flood comes. Odysseus and Oedipus and Oenone turned to fire in the sky, enormous, burnt on to clouds shroudlike in their stiffness, crying for wife, wifemother, Paris. Orestes pursued. Paconius and Pacuvius and Paetus and Palfurius and Pallas hearing loud flutes of Pan in the innermost chambers of the brain as they gasp in the last air of pitch and sulphur. Pedius pleasuring both Phoebe and Phyllis sodomized by the huge splinter of a wooden pillar in a downtown brothel. Pitholaus hearing the voice of Plato saying only ideas are reality. Try this pain, Plato, and then no pain. Plautius and Pollux and Pompeius and the Psylli with their charmed snakes writhing in blasts of a wind pumped from the terrene viscera. Priapus dephallified. Proserpina cool in hell. Ptolemy recalling a prophecy of an end by fire but only for Alexandria. Pyrrhus the victim, Romulus screaming as he sucks at a firedug, Rubria a red body before the final charring. Rustius and Rutilius embalmed screaming, their quarrel cut off. Salus praying in his last nightmare to Saturn, god of health in old age procured by liberal use of seasalt, while he raped Sabines to the approval of the Salli, singing priests. Salvidienus tearing the skin of his own face off. Scipio eaten by an igneous Africa heaving with scorpions. Selene failing to drag Semiramis moonwards. Spiculus stoned by Stephanus, both stoned by ultimate firestones. Statilius set upon by a bull as big as an island. Sulpicius on a gallows of molten marble. Theogenes seeing no heavens, all burnt, the stars flying sparks, for his scrying. To say nothing of the Thessalians, Trioptolemus, the Vinii, the visiting Vonones. The lights out, time's ruination, our mother our killer, an uncaring deity, so everything ends, a figure of the finality and nothing done.

       And Sadoc the son of Azor in great agony among the cropping goats, manybreasted, with nothing to pray to, a great idea having burgeoned, having flowered, having died, the sun over the circumcised alps and the Helvetian thrushes opening their throats, waiting for another end.

The End

Author's Note

It is fitting that I acknowledge my various debts. My fictitious narrator sometimes muddles up, sometimes gets right, authorities we take for granted but he, presumably, cannot know. The major ones are Tacitus, Suetonius, Josephus and the Acts of the Apostles. I thought it best to consult these in the original tongues and, for the last, I make special acknowledgment of the Graeco-Latin edition of the New Testament published in Graz and furnished with an apparatus criticus by Augustinus Merk SJ. My lesser authorities are numerous and include the exegesis of the Acts by F. F. Bruce, which forms a volume in The New International Commentary on the New Testament; Paul by M. Dibelius; St Paul the Traveller by A. M. Ramsay; Die Romfahrt des Apostels Paulus und die Seefahrtskunde in rOmischen Kaiseralter by H. Balmer; Jerusalem zur Zeit Jesu by Joachim Jeremias; the second volume of the New Testament Apocrypha in Edgar Hennecke's edition; The Acts of the Christian Martyrs in the Oxford Early Christian Texts. I wish also to acknowledge the help of my friend Dr Vincenzo Labella, with whom I have worked on the scenarios for three television series, Moses the Lawgiver, Jesus of Nazareth and A.D. I prepared for the writing of all three by composing literary works first — the poem Moses and the novels Man of Nazareth and this present one. The amount of research that goes into a popular television series is not clearly to be seen in the finished product, which has to aim at great narrative simplicity and the conscious elimination of elements which would appeal only to the scholar or the reader of fiction. Thus, The Kingdom of the Wicked, which was partly written for its own sake, partly in anticipation of A.D., may be regarded both as an expansion of the latter and a literary diversion in its own right. The opinions, interpretations, errors, falsifications and ultimate pessimism of the supposed author (whom I supposedly translate from the supposed demotic Greek) are not always mine. The main thing we have in common is a location: he wrote in Helvetia, outside Lucanum, in the reign of Domitian; I write in Lugano in Switzerland under the democratic wings of I am not quite sure whom.