Damascus Read online

  And there I was, for the first time in my life, at the edge of the world.

  A stretch of boulders formed a bulwark between the shore and the hungry sea. I stood there, looking out to where dolphins leaped out of the water. On the rocks a colony of cats screeched for fish from boats moored nearby. The sea spray dampened my tunic and skirts but I was oblivious to it. I searched the churning water. Under the blue-green blanket of the sea the black shadows of the depths seemed to reach to the very centre of Hades. My child was there. I could hear her calling me from the deep. If I jumped from the rocks I would join her. I stepped to the very edge of the quay.

  ‘Lady, be careful, the tides are wicked here.’ An old man was casting a net over the water.

  I stepped back. I had lost her; I could no longer hear my daughter. The waves gently broke and withdrew, broke and withdrew. I could not hear her but I wanted to believe that she could hear me.

  ‘I will come back for you,’ I whispered to the sea.

  Of course my husband whipped me on my return. I accepted his punishment. My taking off had frightened him and the household, and my beating was nothing compared to the lashing he gave the slave. That evening, I kissed him and cajoled him. With artful tenderness I dared to ask if I might go back to the ocean again. I told him it calmed me and banished the furies.

  He relented. Theodorus was kind, and had been troubled by my descent into melancholy and grief. As long as I took a slave with me, I was allowed to go to the waterfront. ‘On the Sabbath,’ he stipulated, as my kisses rained down on him. ‘You can go there on the Sabbath.’

  My husband’s grandfather had been born in bondage to a nobleman in the city who had Jews counted amongst his slaves. This ancient people, as venerable as the Greeks, as eternal as the Egyptians, kept a day of the working week sacred to the worship of their god. The gentleman who had freed my husband’s grandfather and thus liberated all his descendants excused the Jewish slaves and workers of his household from labour on this one day sacred to them. In time he did the same for all his slaves and labourers, be they Jews or not. When Theodorus’s grandfather was freed, he upheld this obligation in his household, and so did his son, our father Dion. My husband swore that we would do the same when we had a household of our own.

  When I had first heard about this indulgence, I’d been scornful. I had been pleased to work and serve my father and my mother. Our only days of rest occurred when we celebrated the harvests and the feast days of the gods.

  ‘This is madness,’ I’d said to my husband early in our marriage. ‘It will lead to laziness and waste.’

  ‘It is a promise my grandfather made to his master. I will not dishonour that vow.’

  I’d shaken my head in bewilderment. ‘Do I let Psyche and Fortitude laze around in a torpor all of that strange day?’ I demanded. ‘That will only breed insolence and disrespect.’

  He’d laughed. ‘The slave girls are not Jews. They won’t abandon you—they’ll still prepare the meals, they will collect our water.’ He’d added, ‘The only Jew who works for us is Daniel. But such compensation is a boon for the other labourers as well.’

  His eyes were distant, as if he had forgotten I was there and was convincing himself of the righteousness of his grandfather’s promise. ‘They are an old race and sacred to the gods, Lydia, and as is true for all ancient peoples, their traditions contain great wisdom. There is justice in the observation of the Sabbath, you will see.’

  Two words that had given me pause. One strange and unfamiliar, yet timeless, as though I had always known it. Sabbath. The other, known to me, but rarely associated with worship. Justice.

  And so that became my custom. Once every seven days, I could journey to the port. I was always accompanied by Salonikos, as well as one of my slave girls. Once we got to the seawall, the slave would sit herself as far as possible from the treacherous water, for she knew Poseidon to be wild and intemperate, and would sew and sing while I stared into the depths. Salonikos would lie down beside her and sleep. I had no notion of time passing. I had found myself a home here. On these rocks, between earth and water. In the sea’s song, the lapping of the waves, I believed that I could hear my daughter; and I could also hear my mother singing the songs I’d loved as a child.

  ‘Sir, sir, greetings, how are you this fine morning?’

  On one visit I was awoken from the spell of the sea by Fortitude, who had risen and was calling and waving to someone. The endless blue of the sea and sky had blinded me; I had to squint to see that she was greeting our workman, Daniel.

  The spit we were on shot straight out into Poseidon’s lair, but after a length it twisted and formed a further rampart that stretched westwards towards the port. The sea there had been dredged to create a shallow channel where the fishing boats could gently cast themselves into the further waters. Between the straight spit where I found my comfort and the entry to the city’s grand port, there was a rise dotted with small hovels and cramped dwellings. I had barely paid it any attention; I thought it the miserable abode of beggars and day labourers. It was this hilltop that Daniel was ascending.

  He had his honour and he knew his duty. Daniel turned around and bowed and made his way down the hill towards us. He was barefoot but his steps were sure as he navigated the rock-strewn path. He nodded to Fortitude but for me he struck his chest and bowed once again. Salonikos was still curled in sleep. I went to kick him awake but, with a quiet gesture, Daniel indicated that I should let the slave sleep.

  ‘My lady, I greet you.’ A rough voice.

  ‘Greetings,’ I answered. ‘I hope the gods find you well.’

  I immediately realised my mistake. His god forbade loyalty to any other.

  But Daniel’s response was gracious, if his tone was still gruff. ‘My Lord is benevolent,’ he replied.

  And then came an uncomfortable silence. He was looking out at the sea, not wishing to embarrass me with his gaze. He was dressed in a coarse flax tunic that fell to his knees. And his smell was potent: sweat and salt and man. I wanted to move away from him, to return to the sweet breath of the sea.

  I found courage. I indicated the hilltop beyond. ‘Is your home there, sir?’

  ‘No, my lady, our meeting house is there.’

  As honour demanded, we were not looking at each other. But he sensed my confusion.

  ‘It is a meeting house of we Jews. It is my duty to attend on this day.’

  I dared to turn. His head was still bowed, and I looked beyond him to the cluster of huts and outhouses that sprawled across the higher part of the hill.

  ‘May I come with you, sir?’

  My boldness surprised us both, and for the first time his eyes met mine. They were the colour of chestnuts, paler than his skin. We both swiftly averted our faces.

  ‘If my lady wants.’ His voice gruffer now, suspicious.

  This courage to be so shameless, where had it come from? I knew that Theodorus and his father had great respect for the Jews. It was said their mysteries were so profound that they had adherents amongst the noblest of families in Thrace and Macedonia. But this was not what provoked my impudence in demanding what I did of Daniel. What fired my curiosity was the desire to know about a god who disavowed all other gods, who claimed enmity between Himself and those gods who had betrayed my mother and my daughter—who had betrayed me.

  I nodded to Daniel. ‘Thank you, sir. I will follow you.’

  Fortitude and Salonikos walked two steps behind Daniel and I walked two steps behind them. In this procession we scaled the hill.

  The slope was crowded with camps and beggars, mired in squalor and filth. I covered my head and raised my shawl to my nose and mouth to keep out the stench. We approached a high wall of roughly laid stones. Daniel led us to the pine gate, opened it, and politely ushered us into a courtyard.

  It was chaos: people, noise, the yelling of children. Chickens darted and pecked amongst the seated crowd, mothers took their children to squat by the wall to relieve themselves in a
small grove of olive trees. The yard was not paved and my sandals sank into the mud. The noise was matched by the clamour from the dwellings and hovels all around us, now hidden from view. I could hear the obscene yelling of a drunk from over the walls. The sputtering and sizzling of food cooking over fires. The sounds and stink of poverty.

  Fortitude, looking dazed and horrified, stood as close to me as she dared without touching me. She was gripping tightly to the basket on her head with one hand, scared that someone was going to snatch it.

  I looked ahead. A long and tattered screen made from goats’ hides stitched together was hung over thin reed rods that divided the width of the yard. A two-storey wooden building rose behind it.

  I pointed to the dwelling, thinking it might offer some respite from the crowd. ‘Sir,’ I said to Daniel, ‘could we go there for some shelter?’

  Regretfully, he shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it is not possible, my lady. Only Jews can enter.’

  I was outraged. After such a brazen insult I was ready to go. But just then the screen was drawn and an old woman emerged, her head shrouded, her thin hands clutching a basket laden with dried fruits, breads and pickled nuts. The crowd rose as one and rushed to her. As the very young and the very old lunged towards her, as tiny hands and aged curled fingers pulled food from the basket, it was as if the world consisted only of the cries and calls of birds, and that the birds spoke every language known to man. Stunned, I watched. In an instant, the basket had been emptied. And then, in another instant, the yard was deserted.

  Except for my slaves and I. Except for the wary Daniel, and a handful of women nursing their infants. From within the ramshackle wooden dwelling hidden behind the screen, for the first time I could hear chanting. I became aware of prayers being spoken and sung. A youth pulled back the screen. He stepped out into the yard and with a haughty air he surveyed the few who remained. And then, I was dumbstruck. He spoke in Greek but his words made no sense to me. What appalled me was that his gaze fell indiscriminately across us all.

  Daniel’s eyes were still respectfully lowered from mine, but he came as close to me as he dared. ‘My lady, it is best you leave,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What is he doing?’

  ‘He is teaching the stories of our people.’

  One of the young mothers, a tiny infant suckling, interrupted the youth’s incantations. ‘Sir, sir,’ she gasped, shocked by her own daring, ‘I have done as your god demands: I have saved my child; I have not allowed her to be abandoned.’

  The youth was clearly affected by the young woman’s words.

  ‘I am hungry, sir, my family have deserted me. Please, I need food.’

  The youth now looked like a scared and foolish boy. He looked plaintively towards Daniel. The women too were looking at him as though only he could answer the mother’s desperate plea.

  Behind me I heard Fortitude say quietly but with spite, ‘Beg in the street, that’s what the rest of us have to do.’

  But Daniel went to the suffering woman. ‘We will feed you as best we can,’ he said to her. ‘Keep coming here to our yard and we will help you.’

  He squatted next to the mother. And then he did something that won him my favour for eternity. He loosened the rags around the child and gently tickled the sparse down on its head. The infant cooed with pleasure.

  ‘If she survives we will sell her in the markets. We will find her a home.’

  Behind me, Salonikos snorted, his contempt clear. I too gasped at these words. She was a girl infant; there was no good price they could get for her at the markets: to feed her, to raise her—there was no way that such costs could be recouped.

  Daniel was again at my side. The youth had returned to his recitation of his people’s ancient lore.

  Our labourer’s next words were full of trembling. I sensed his great embarrassment. ‘Our Lord considers it a great disgrace to abandon an infant. Once He has breathed life into a soul, only He has the right to reclaim that life.’ He said it almost apologetically, anticipating my indignation and scorn. ‘That is what is written,’ he mumbled. ‘That is what we must obey.’

  He thought I would be repelled, insulted by such words.

  I made my way to where the women were sitting. I adjusted the shield of my veil across my hair. I sat down with them and I looked up at the awkward youth, nodding that he might continue. I had found a god I could serve.

  She is dying, my Salvation is dying. She knows it as well as I do. The winter encroaches, the trees are losing their leaves and the winds that come ripping up our mountain are now made heavy with ice. The birds have gone. We are enveloped in silence, save for the wind thundering through the trees. There are days when my Salvation cannot get up off the blanket of twigs and crushed bones that is our bed. I stoke and replenish the fire with foraged kindling and dried branches. And, as always, I remind her about you: our son, our brother, our Jesus. Our hope.

  On entering the cave after my morning’s scavenging—I had collected some roots and mushrooms—I find her in agony. Her body is convulsing, her eyes swollen red from crying and filled with despair. I drop the fruit and am at her side. ‘Where is the pain, my daughter?’

  She cannot hear my words; all that she can communicate is pain and distress.

  I collect her in my arms, I kiss her all over, I murmur words of comfort and devotion. And slowly my endearments and my love calm her.

  I dutifully recite to her the prayer that our teacher Paul taught me. Even as I begin, on those first words—‘It is better to find refuge in the Lord than it is to trust in humans’—I sense her pain receding. The malevolent spirits that devour her are cowed by the prayer and so I continue. ‘It is better to find refuge in the Lord, child, than it is to trust in kings. All the kingdoms of the world surround us, child, but I call out the Lord’s name and I defeat them. They surround us on every side, but we call out His name and the evil gods flee.’ I know that the whimpers and the groans she makes are her accompaniment to the prayer. ‘The Strangers swarm around as bees,’ I chant, ‘but they are destroyed as quickly as a bush is consumed by fire. We call out the name of the Lord and they are destroyed. We are attacked and we stumble but the Lord hears our call and He lifts us up. The Lord is our strength and our song. He is our Salvation.’

  I kiss her lips, her eyes, her stump, I kiss the fingers on her good hand. My tears fall, they cannot stop falling. ‘This is why I named you so, my daughter: you are promised to the Lord.’

  I feed her. She shakes her head, indignant and stubborn, and I have to force the gruel down her throat. I will not let her starve. She spits, she chokes, but I hold her mouth closed until I see her throat swallow. She is furious, but I pray she knows that I wish her only good. Once she is fed, her hand finds mine and wraps itself tight around it. That trust breaks me. I have to flee our cave, run as far from there as I can so I might release my despair without her knowing. I howl into the night. Like a witch. Like a dog.

  ‘When is he coming? When is he returning?’

  I asked that once of my teacher, and Paul replied, ‘He’ll come when we are not expecting him. He’ll come as a thief in the night. We must be ready, Lydia. Every moment of our waking and every moment of our sleep, we must be prepared for him.’

  The air is biting but the wind has abated. Down below the city is in darkness. The moon is new, and even the glow of the winding river is faint as it is swallowed by black night and disappears. I have no strength left for lamentation. I dry my eyes.

  Jesus, if I could ask you anything it is to come now, to come today.

  I look up to the night sky, to the fiery glow of the stars. An owl hoots. A sudden sharp awakening. I have not fallen asleep; my eyes haven’t been shut, but I have been lost in reverie. The fire will be spent. My child will be cold. My naked feet trample stone and branch, dirt and thistle to get back to our cave.

  The embers smoulder. The fire is not dead. And my daughter isn’t in pain. She is sleeping peacefully. Carefully, as quietly as I can,
I lay more kindling on the fire; I watch the wood spark, the blaze take and the flames rise. I rest a thick branch across it.

  You returned, my Jesus. Not in fire, not with a battle cry, not in splendour. You returned for this child.

  I bore my husband two sons. The first, on surviving his first year, my husband named Fidelus, an Italian name that honoured the nobleman who had freed his kin. The foreign name proved difficult for our Greek tongues and the boy was soon nicknamed Philos. Our second was named Leonidas.

  This should have been the period of my greatest happiness. I was a mother to two sturdy sons who had survived the demonic illnesses of infancy. I was the wife of a prospering artisan, a kind and hardworking man, and my children were the first generation born to full liberty and citizenship. Calliope was all graciousness and benevolence and our father, Dion, pledged to grant most of his fortune to his beloved and honoured firstborn son. And yet this was the period of my deepest melancholy.

  My boys did not bring me peace. With each birth, with each confinement, when it was just myself and the child in the world, I found myself puzzled and then distraught by the estrangement I felt. I could see nothing of me in them; they were only their father’s sons.

  I could not forget her. She who had been taken from me. We’d had only the merest sliver of time together. But I could not forget the ease with which her tiny mouth had found and seized my nipple. Philos and Leon had bit as they drank from me, as if to rip into my flesh. When I was left blessedly alone, I would allow my grief and wretchedness to show. My tears were never-ending.

  As if sensing my estrangement, my boys grew detached from me. They were obedient and respectful children, and grew to be resolute and admirable young boys. But it was no secret that they preferred the company of Fortitude and Psyche. The slave girls admired and praised them for their boyishness and mischievousness. ‘Look at your long prick, Philos,’ they would tease the eldest, tugging at his sex. ‘You will have a hundred sons.’ That would make little Leon complain. ‘And what of mine? Isn’t mine big enough?’ Fortitude would cup his pebble testes in her hand, kiss his tiny sex. ‘Yours will grow to be huge,’ she would chuckle. ‘It will be enormous, I pity your wife.’ The slave girls would fall into merriment, and the boys, not understanding, would erupt into joyous laughter as well. I found such revelry noxious; my head felt as if a score of furies had alighted within it, pecking at my sanity.