The Kingdom of the Wicked (45 page)

       This Greek Lysias, who had taken on the name of the Emperor when buying citizenship from the Empress, had his own good reasons for getting Paul off his hands. If the Jews killed him there would be a lengthy inquiry, and it would certainly come out that he had in his time taken bribes from Jews. Everybody did it. A perquisite of colonial service. Best to throw the whole business into the lap of the procurator up there in Caesarea with his Jewish princess of a wife. He ordered a horse for Paul, a mounted squadron and a platoon of infantry. That should be enough. Set off at nine in the evening, when these noisy Jewish bastards would be in bed with their daggers under the pillow, and march steady, five minutes' break in the hour, be at Antipatris before dawn, not Jewish territory so safe, send the bulk of the escort back to Jerusalem, a handful of cavalry enough to take him to Caesarea, there let Felix, miserable sort of a swine, strange how a man's name is always a kind of joke, take over. There it was, then.

       Paul, his rear sore, was lodged in a neutral kind of chamber, locked but not a prison cell, until the Sanhedrin had its case against him prepared and a counsel for the prosecution appointed. He was fed regularly on bread, beans and watered wine, and he was allowed writing materials. There were always letters to write. After five days he was permitted warm water for washing and a new robe. Somebody in the palace, clearly, had not unfriendly feelings towards him. Probably the wife of the procurator, daughter of the unlamented Herod Agrippa I. Washed and enrobed, he was led by a couple of Syrian private soldiers to the hall set aside for the hearing. Ananias was there, glowering, with three assistant priests, and there was a portly man puffing over his papers, introduced as Tertullus, a Greek Jew from the look of him. The procurator came in with his personal escort and sat resignedly on a kind of throne. He irritably waved a flywhisk. Paul took him to be of lowly origin, a civil servant who had worked his way up by threats and bribery. He was to learn later that he was a freedman who had served Claudius's mother Antonia and added the forename Antonius to the servile Felix. Also that his brother was Pallas, financial minister to Claudius. Felix's wife Drusilla was to tell him this. The procurator frowned at Paul and asked where he was from. From Tarsus in Cilicia, no mean — Let this business begin. Tertullus bowed portlily and started:

       'Seeing, 0 illustrious Felix, that under your governance we enjoy much peace, and that by your providence many evils have been corrected in this territory, we accept the judgment you shall be pleased to make, most excellent Felix, with all due gratitude in the matter now laid before you. I will be brief and put off all tediousness and say merely that here we have a most pestilential fellow, a mover of insurrections among all the Jews throughout the world, and a ringleader of the sect called by some Nazarenes and by others Christians. Another matter, and the one immediately at issue: he tried to profane the Temple in Jerusalem by leading thither a man of Gentile persuasion contrary to the sacred law of the Jews. By your own examination, 0 illustrious one, you will see these things to be so. I will not presume to put into your honourable mouth the judgment meet to be meted out, but would merely at this time emphasize the gravity of his crime.' While he drew breath to continue, the procurator shook his flywhisk and then pointed it at Paul, saying:

       'Let the accused speak.' Paul smiled and spoke suavely, saying:

       'I know, sir, you have been a judge of this nation for many years, and therefore I make my disposition to you cheerfully and with confidence. Briefly, then. I have spent no more than twelve days in Jerusalem. In that time I have stirred up no crowds, neither in the synagogues nor in the city. I have not even been involved in any religious disputation. Nothing I am accused of can be upheld. The Jews of Asia who initiated my accusation are, I see, not present. Those of Jerusalem can find me guilty of one thing only, and that a thing confidently accepted by the sect called the Pharisees, who are of right and tradition represented in the religious councils of Israel —’

       'What thing?'

       'That after death there is resurrection. Believing this, I do not offend against the ancestral creeds of the Jews. Wherein then am I guilty?’

       ‘And the other matter?'

       'Taking a Gentile into the Temple? This is expressly forbidden. Would I knowingly lead a friend who has come far with me to his condign death? I note that there are none here present who can bear witness to this allegation.'

       Claudius Felix grunted. There then entered a very young lady of exquisite dark beauty who smiled at Paul and kissed Felix on the crown of his head. This would be the lady Drusilla, his wife. She stood behind the chair, smiling now more generally. Felix said: 'I know the ways of the Jews. I will consider the matter at greater length with the accused himself. Clear the court.'

       The priests were not happy about this, but Tertullus bowed and bowed his way out backwards. Felix summoned with his flywhisk Paul at the decent distance of a prisoner at the bar to approach the procuratorial chair. Paul did so, catching a whiff of the procuratorial consort's perfume. Felix said: 'I have ratified from the records that you're a Roman citizen. This means you have money.'

       'A Roman born. I have no money.'

       'A pity. Money can often resolve things that legal wranglings make more and more — well, knotty. You are acquainted with the lady Drusilla?'

       'Honoured. Daughter of a king of Israel.'

       'She prefers to be known as the consort of a Roman procurator. Listen. I hate nonsense. I hate hypocrisy. I hate petty kings. I hate law. I love expediency.'

       Drusilla began to speak to Paul in Aramaic but then changed to charming Greek with a strong rasp on the chi. 'My father, I regret to say, did things not easily forgivable. Neither to you Christians nor to Roman justice. Will it surprise you that his daughter is anxious to hear something of the new belief?'

       'And,' Paul smiled, 'her husband — who hates law but loves expediency?'

       'Paul, I'll be candid with you,' Felix said. 'I don't want to judge your case. I'm not sure that I even understand it. Moreover, I've been recalled to Rome. Some nonsense about undue harshness in putting down an insurrection in Samaria. You know the sort of thing. While I wait for a ship to arrive you're welcome to expound your doctrine. But you're in custody. The custody may be long. Your case will be heard by my successor, and Castor and Pollux alone know when he'll be here.'

       'With respect, as there seems to be no case to answer, might it not be expedient to let me go?'

       'Ah, you're a Jew but you don't seem to know the Jews. That's the Roman in you, I suppose. They won't be satisfied with an acquittal. If I dismissed the whole business and let you take ship from Caesarea to Tarsus or wherever you want to go, those gentry in Jerusalem would find out quickly enough and tear the place to shreds. I don't want to leave here in the middle of a fresh insurrection. These damned sicarii — you've heard of them?'

       'I've heard of them.'

       'No, I've enough on my plate as it is. This Nero is something of a new broom. Only a boy, but he knows all about cleaning the provinces up, or so he thinks.'

       'What was that name?' Paul frowned.

       'Of course, you won't have heard, will you? We have a new Emperor. Claudius has been turned into a god.'

       'Custody, then,' Paul sighed. 'I submit.'

       'You have to, don't you? All right, Drusilla, ask him your questions.'

Time. Time. We have been living, with Paul, in Claudian time. Now we shift to Neronian time. Time is not, as some say, a universal waterclock but a submissive consort of place. But the chronicler, servant of Chronos, has to forget that place is the reality and time a phantom hovering over it like the smoke from a stewpan. Whipped by his master, he goes back in time, which is absurd. What is now to happen has already happened.

       Claudius lay in uneasy sleep. Agrippina shook him gently awake. 'I'm ttttired. I have this ppppp

       'I know. Dear Claudius.' She embraced his ageing bulk with a show of love, even of desire. Sick as he was, he began creakingly to respond. 'No, dearest, not now,' she crooned, then deliciously laughed. 'Time to eat. Supper's ready. You've been starving yourself. Silly Seneca and his stoical self-denial. You must eat to be healthy. I've ordered your favourite dish — wild mushrooms.'

       'Wild mmmmmm

       They were already on the table when Claudius came in. His daughter was absent with a migraine, a physical endowment from her father. She had none of his mental endowments. Britannicus, his sturdy son, stood at attention. Agrippina, all smiles, helped her husband on to his couch. The three were reclined when Claudius took in the empty place. 'Late again. Not on the hour but five minutes bbbbefore the hour. Isn't that military ppppunctuality, my son''

       'A family dinner isn't a parade, father.'

       'No. Well, at least ccccommon ppppoliteness. An empire ought to be run like the ffffusion of a ffffamily and an army. If that's ppppossible.'

       The mushrooms in their thick brown sauce steamed less urgently 'Eat, Claudius dear. We won't wait for Domitius.'

       'I've little appppetite, my dear. Still, the odour is — seductive.' Agrippina's son now rushed in, unclasping his cloak, crying:

       'My profoundest apologies. An appointment in Suburra. One of the litter-carrying slaves broke his ankle. I do most sincerely regret my unpunctuality, dear father. I beat the fool, of course, and borrowed a slave from somebody, I forget whom — Ah, mushrooms, delicious —’

       He was ready to put his fingers unceremoniously in the dish, but Claudius proffered his own full plate. 'Take these. I can't eat.'

       Agrippina coughed violently. She then, preoccupied with the feigned paroxysm, overturned her goblet blindly and let wine cascade on to her dress. Her son took Britannicus's napkin and wiped her down. Claudius said:

       'Well, since you ordered them, my dear —’

       He fingered in three of the fungi whole. Agrippina exhaled in relief and cried: 'Oh, I'm so pleased. Let's drink to the Emperor's restored health and appetite. May the Emperor Claudius live for ever.'

       'Not even you, my dear, can prevent me from turning into a gggg —’

       He turned pale. He sweated. 'Greed. Always one of my failings. The virtues of ttttemperance. Seneca is very good on that subj — Oh, no.' His round face under the snow thatch passed from colour to colour like a chameleon. He gaped and tried to drink in all the air of the world. He clutched his big belly with both hands. Quick to act. That witch in the Suburba knew her craft. Nor, it was hoped, had suspected who her veiled client might be. But, to be on the safe side, have her put, operative word, to silence. Agrippina clapped her hands, her eating son thought, for a moment, in applause, but it was that servants might come. Claudius, moaning, was helped out. One servant performed a more important act — the removal of the mushrooms and their consignment to silence. Domitius tore white meat from a bone. Britannicus stood to attention, waiting for orders that did not arrive.

       Pallas and Agrippina stood in the imperial bedchamber and watched Claudius turn painfully into a god. He had vomited, but she had been ready with what she alleged to be a healing aperient well watered. She openly embraced Pallas when Claudius opened his eyes wide for a last gulp of the world. Gaping to the limit to take it all in to take below to the bloodless land of the shades. She made a rutting motion in Pallas's arms as the rattle began. 'Goodbye, uncle Ccccclaudius,' she jeered. Then, affronted by the audible collapse of nether muscles, she strode to the one lamp and blew it out.

       When the Roman dawn was gorgeous over the pines beyond the terrace, Narcissus paced, waiting for the commander of the Praetorian Guard to appear. He at length strode in, Afranius Burrus, a decent moral man, though chosen for the office by Agrippina. 'The news?' he asked.

       'All over. It was a failure of the heart. To be expected at his age after unwonted gorging.'

       'What had he eaten?'

       'Mushrooms.'

       'Mushrooms can always be dangerous. He proclaimed the succession?'

       'Pallas and the Empress report that he proclaimed it.'

       'Be so good,' Burrus said weightily, 'as to assure the Emperor designate that the Praetorian Guard is ready to serve him with all the devotion it accorded his father.'

       'Adoptive father I take it you mean. The Emperor designate is not Britannicus.'

       'Not Britannicus?' Burrus seemed to take all of ninety seconds to perform an act of simple subtraction. Then he heard the voice of a mere boy, though a precocious one, up early to practise his music, moaning a song to the accompaniment of a cithern:

              'Troy is destroyed,

              But a greater Troy

              Will rise in the void

              None shall destroy.'

       If I have neglected for many pages the minor personages of this chronicle, it is because they have done little worthy of your attention. Who can compare a mother's wiping of her child's nose with the spreading of the word? If you reply that the word will not last but noses will always drip you are doubtless speaking a profound truth, but chronicles are not compiled that the obvious may be eternized. When the great men are gone it will be time to give ear and eye to the little ones. However, let us go briefly to a gymnasium in Rome where Caleb alias Metellus no longer trains himself to perform skilled acts of aggression and defence in the circus but instead trains others. He has lost his youth but is in robust maturity, health glowing from him like oil, or it may be oil. 'Break now,' he says to two Greek wrestlers. 'Rub down. Then to the baths. Ah, Julius.'

       For Marcus Julius Tranquillus the senior centurion has trodden sand and made a circuitous way past sweating gougers and punchers to say a word of farewell to his brother-in-law. During the past years he has done nothing notable. His leg was long in healing, he put on some weight and lost some hair and is clearly no longer a young officer of whom much may be expected. His sole triumph was the confirmation of Messalina's villainy, but he took no pleasure in witnessing her execution, seeing that glorious body rendered into proleptically putrescent morphology or worm's food. The Emperor Claudius was not as grateful as he might have been: he probably associated Julius with a phase of pain and humiliation, and Narcissus, in his concentration on amassing wealth before his retirement, forgot the humble soldier who had lent the weight of a witness to a most dangerous accusation. He served briefly in Syria but was stricken with fever and sent home. He grew weary with duties in barracks. But now, with a new Emperor, and with a new procurator in Palestine, he is to be given a chance to serve Rome with his Aramaic, not that he has much of it. Caleb says: