He placed his hand upon my shoulder and pointed to the cross which hung about his neck. I shook my head. He did not insist. We remained silent for a long while. He was not impatient.
Suddenly, I said in purest Greek: “Why do you come to torment these people?” He looked at me as a man awakened suddenly from a profound sleep looks at some strange creature sitting at his bedside.
“Who…who speaks in you? Is it Satan or is it an angel?”
“I have seen neither heaven nor hell…”
“By what miracle have you acquired your impeccable Greek? Has the gift of tongues suddenly descended upon you?”
I laughed. “If I told you that God or Satan speaks through me, you would believe me.”
“Before God, all things are possible, my son,” he said quietly. His voice was a melodious echo of Apollonius. ‘The spirit of the Tyanean must be lodging in this man,’ I thought, ‘but distorted by theology and the dark superstitions which now prevail in the world.’
“Though all things are possible, Father, it is always best not to stretch forth our hands for the most far-fetched explanations.”
“Yes, you are right, my son. One should seek the simplest explanations, and the most natural. You are a Greek who, weary of civilization, its iniquities, its futile glamor, has settled here. Now you fear that your peace may be interrupted again.”
I nodded.
“In a sense. I am here for the same purpose,—to forget the indignities heaped upon our Lord Jesus by false teachers, and the selfishness of man. Perhaps here, these simple, kind people will accept the Word of Jesus as it comes undefiled from His lips.”
“They are perfectly happy now. Why disturb them?”
“Life on earth lasts only a day, but in Heaven…or in Hell, it is eternal. Those who do not believe in our Lord cannot dwell in His Heaven.”
“Are there not many mansions in my Father’s House…?”
“True, but the door is barred to all heathens except by the long road of purgatory. Even saintly Plato, and Apollonius the Tyanean, must travel the road of darkness.”
“Apollonius?”
“Yes,—for whatever the ignorant rabble may say, he was a saint. Alas, he was not baptized!”
“Where is he now, Father?”
“In the outer rim of Purgatory, where he knows neither pleasure nor pain. But the Lord will soon shine upon him as a sun, and he will know indescribable joy.”
“I am glad to hear you speak in this manner of Apollonius, my great Master.”
“My Master too.”
I looked at him.
“His mind was too mighty for his heart. It is the heart, not the mind, that saves us.”
“Do you believe that God’s mercy extends to all men?”
“Eventually…certainly. His mercy is limitless.”
“Will it embrace Judas?”
“Even Judas.”
“Even Ahasuerus?”
“Even Ahasuerus—if he accepts the Cross he refused to bear.”
Unconvinced by his arguments, I was nevertheless touched by the generosity of his spirit.
One of the monks approached. In the chiaroscuro of the moon’s reflection, I thought I saw Damis. My heart beat against my chest like a hammer.
“I shall soon be with you, Francis,” the Bishop called out.
The monk bowed, crossed himself, and walked away.
“A charming fellow—perhaps a trifle too pious and too serious. He even scolds me upon occasions, you understand—not openly, but with a countenance so hurt that I cannot but accept the rebuke.”
“Man needs a thousand years to mellow him.”
“Why live so long, my son? Can one really learn much more in a thousand years than in seventy? Life merely repeats itself.”
“Are seventy years sufficient to understand even one’s self?”
“Neither seventy years nor seventy times seventy, my son,—not until we meet our Lord face to face. Then, in the fraction of a second, we understand all.”
Kotikokura, dressed in his gaudiest attire, filled our glasses with solemnity and pomp, while his wife, on tiptoes, her head bent, brought in the food,—a young lamb, slaughtered in the morning, prepared with a dozen vegetables and fruits whose perfume delighted the nostrils of the Bishop.
“My son, I have often noticed that a sensitive palate does not exclude a sensitive soul,” the Bishop remarked, as he helped himself to another plate.
“Apollonius, too, rejoiced in delicate viands.”
“Our Lord Jesus was seen frequently at the table with His disciples,” he added.
I could have related some gossip about Jesus that was current in Jerusalem, but I preferred to discuss my own fate with him—the first man in centuries who was the intellectual equal of Apollonius. I was determined to tell him my story. However, I waited for the most opportune moment.
Kotikokura glared at his wife who, either forgetting, or her toes aching, walked on her soles, making a noise like the slapping of a large tongue against the palate. She did not see him. He uttered a low growl. Frightened, she rushed out of the room, and returned immediately on her tiptoes.
“Your valet is an extraordinary person,” the Bishop whispered.
Kotikokura stood motionless at a distance, approaching the table only from time to time, to refill our glasses. “Father, are you in a mood to hear a strange story?” “I am delighted to listen to you, my son.” We rose. He took my arm, and walked leisurely.
The river flowed on silently as the hours in sleep, and upon it, the moon trembled vaguely, like the wing of a giant butterfly perched upon a flower.
“Father,” I said, “is Jesus God?”
“Of course, my son.”
“Was he not a man when he was crucified?”
“He was both man and God.”
“It is difficult to conceive of such a union.”
“Not at all. I find it very easy.”
“Strange. Some people are born with a predisposition to believe; others are born to doubt.”
“There is much joy in Heaven when those who doubt see the light.”
I smiled ironically.
“You, too, will accept Jesus,” the Bishop gently added, “Jesus is inescapable.”
“No!” I exclaimed. “He is not inescapable,—and I will not accept him!”
The Bishop smiled kindly, drawing his robe tightly about his legs. “Perhaps you have already accepted Him, but are unaware of it…and something inexplicable in you restrains you from confessing it. Our minds are prouder than our hearts,—and less wise…”
“Father, what will always prevent me from accepting Jesus is not inexplicable, but perfectly rational.”
“What is it, my son?”
“I knew Jesus and spoke to him, as I speak to you. He was not a god.”
“Many of us have spoken to Him, and many have found that He is God.”
“I am not speaking in metaphors, Father… I knew Jesus, knew him physically. I broke bread with him. I walked with him, I talked to him even as I talk to you…”
The Bishop rubbed his chin and eyes vigorously. He smiled. “My son, you are pleased to jest.”
“I do not jest, Father.”
“Jesus died twelve hundred years ago. Then you must be more than twelve centuries old…”
“I am…”
“Who– —?”
“I am… Ahasuerus…” The Bishop withdrew a little. He made the sign of the cross. Then, placing his hand upon my shoulder, he said: “Whoever you are, I bless you! “ “You say this, Father, because you still do not believe me.” “You expect me to believe the miracle of your longevity—but you reject the miracle of Christ’s divinity, which millions have found so simple, so natural of acceptance.”
“Truth should be demonstrable.”
The Bishop smiled.
“You of all men should accept His divinity. He made His power manifest in you…”
“I refuse to be bludgeoned into belief by a miracle that defies my reason…”