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.
Thirty-four Years after the Crucifixion
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?’
‘Your offer is generous,’ the other replies, ‘but I am not the sort to lie down quietly. Or to strike empty air. I would offer you that same favour: the kindness of a quick death.’
Were they real gladiators, they would have enjoyed the cena libera last night: the unrestricted feast where warriors can eat and drink what they please. But these two, in the stink of a gaol-cave, dined only on a corn puls, watery as fish piss. One of them sincerely believes that it transformed into the body of his saviour-God; for the other, such ideas are blasphemy and lunacy.
But there will be time yet for other people to ponder those impenetrables. Things are currently in flux; rituals are sprung and growing, but remain pliable shoots. Some will fall on stony ground, some will be wrenched out entirely and some will become deep-rooted as oaks, tenacious as weeds.
And these two men here, clothed only in loincloths and helms scarred from former blows, share more in common than divides them. Both of them believe that the end of the world is nigh and in this, in a way, they are correct: they will most certainly die this day.
As iron whets iron, each has been sharpened through the years of interaction with the other. And now they stand, opposed and motionless, on the hot sands, listening for the slicing of air. Blindfolded before the view of thousands. Sightless in plain daylight.
Forty-three Years after the Crucifixion
The sounds of the earthworks cease only at night: the pounding of dirt being packed; the clatter of poured stones and thud of boulders; the hammering of timber; the shouts of slave-masters. Noises that fill him with the same shiver that the night screech of the bittern did as a child, only now numbed to a constant dull dread.
A dust devil swirls on the fortress square, a little whirl of life. Credulous men believe they are djinn, but the Highlander knows them to be sand and wind. The Highlander has seen all the wonders under the sun and most turned out to be nothing but ephemeral trickeries, pursuits fruitless as grasping at olive oil, or chasing after the wind.
The Highlander came from the Golan Heights of Galilee, though he has spent most of his life outside that plateau. Of course: since one does not gain a name like ‘The Highlander’ except by leaving a place where it could be applied to anyone. It was Jerusalemites who gave Yosef the appellation Haramati, a word that might sound like ‘Arimathea’ to those who don’t speak Hebrew. But there is no such inhabitation as Arimathea; one might just as well seek the end of the wind as Arimathea.