Chapter 5

Eliezer sped ahead, shoving people aside with his cudgel. People avoided him and quickly scattered without moving far away. Longus hastily scanned the street. He had no idea where to go. Despite Eliezer’s best efforts, there was no clear path anywhere. The many voices, the shouting, crying and even screaming, disorientated him. The rickety apartments towered over him, while the strong scent of burning surrounded him. The acrid smell of smoke drifted through the area. Ashes fell, settling on clothes and bare heads. Frightened by the smoke and loud noises, a donkey reared up, upsetting the cart it was pulling. Fruit spilled onto the stone, adding to the confusion.

An apple rolled up to Longus’ foot. He stared down at it and then picked it up. The gods were sending him food. Of course, he thought, this could be the golden apple that Hippomenes used to beat Atalanta in a foot race and win her hand. He was, after all, in a race against the Pretorian Guard and time itself. It was almost the same thing. Atalanta was extremely fast. Longus, on the other hand, could barely stagger.

He wiped the apple on his pallium and took a bite, seemingly lost in thought. He could see several people gaping at him. He glanced down. He was a muddy, filthy mess. The image saddened him. How often had he preened before his polished stone? He would need weeks to recover from this debacle. He took another bite from the apple as though the normal action would overshadow his ghoulish appearance.

The momentary respite did not last. Eliezer returned and grabbed his left arm. Longus was startled.

“Move!” Eliezer ordered. Longus tried, but could not take more than a step or two. His leg muscles, more attuned to getting up from couches or back onto them, ached. Eliezer raised the stick as if planning to hit Longus and then pulled it back.

“Just go!” Eliezer shouted, trying to propel Longus faster. He patted Longus’ rump with the stick, which seemed to have the desired effect. Longus started to lurch ahead. He also tried to eat more of the apple, but every time he raised his hand, Eliezer pulled on it. Longus noted wryly that Eliezer did not touch his right arm, the one with the scroll.

They struggled through more alleys and streets. Eliezer continued to use the end of his stick to prompt Longus. Longus felt it dig into his side, as though Eliezer was a boatman on a river. The impact did not hurt, but served as a mosquito might to urge him to get away. Almost rigid in pain, Longus fought on. His aching muscles, long buried under fat, responded reluctantly, but did not quit. He felt a cramp in his calf, but it passed. Knots developed in his thighs. He kept going. He stepped into dog shit. Ruefully, he continued on.

Somewhere behind him, gaining steadily, Longus was sure he heard the soldiers. Their marching sandals, pounding on the stone streets, echoed like thunder through his mind. The soldiers would show no remorse nor tolerate any barrier. Fear kept Longus’ legs pumping despite their complaints.

Finally, he and Eliezer emerged from the mishmash of apartments, homes and shops. It was as if Rome had created a haphazard wall without a single brick. Panting heavily and bent over, Longus found himself in a strange, almost barren field. The air was clear, as though the buildings behind him were absorbing the smoke and fetid smells. They also swallowed the shouts and animal sounds. Suddenly, everything was quiet. He could even hear a bird cawing in the distance.

Longus drank in the silence, which seemed to envelop his pounding heart. He had never worked so hard. His daily life required little exertion. On occasion, he would heave himself off a couch and wander down to the Forum. The short hike was never taxing. He might stop by a friend’s house for food and drink. His mouth worked harder than any leg muscle. He longed for that kind of exercise again, but Eliezer clearly had no intention of slowing down. He yanked at Longus’ limp left arm again and poked him with the stick.

With a deep, painful breath, Longus started again. He could see in the distance a group of trees. It seemed so far away, but perhaps that was where they were headed. Anything in front of him faded behind the film of perspiration and the sheer exhaustion that blinded him to all but that distant refuge.

He stepped forward, and his sandals hit something. Dumbly, he looked down to see what looked like a pile of stones resting on a raised mound. The image did not register for a moment. Then, Longus gasped. He stopped and glanced around and saw an array of stone markers. His eyes widened. A graveyard. It had to be pagan; the Romans burned their dead in holy pyres. No one could be buried in the city, a rule strictly enforced for centuries. Panic stifled him. The overwhelming sacrilege. He shuddered. He would have a lot of atoning to do. Who knew what god protected this graveyard.

However, he had no time to pour any kind of libation and or seek permission from the god to trespass. He was sure that the shades of the dead no doubt were looking on in anger. He was going to have to spend the rest of his life dodging more harpies and seeking penitence.

Had he the ability, he would have run away, but he had no energy for that kind of exercise. How many more gods was he going to offend? He glanced around in a panic. His legs simply refused to carry him further. He started to fall.

Eliezer held his arm and leaned hard against him, keeping his somewhat upright. “Not here,” he said. His efforts to keep Longus upright were futile. The bigger man simply crumbled, overwhelmed by the enormous affront he was causing. Eliezer again tugged on Longus’ left arm and jabbed even harder with this thick stick. Nothing had any effect. Longus sat, a boulder amid the smaller stone cairns. He loosened his grip, and the apple rolled way. He did not even turn to look at it.

Eliezer let go of Longus’ arm and ran off. For a moment, Longus was alone, but did not care. The gods would surely strike him. Jupiter would unloose his lightning. He would die here, and rightly so, amid the dead and their foreign gods. No ceremony would ever wash the stain from his shade. He pulled the scroll close to his heaving body. Eliezer, too, would suffer the consequences of this brazen act. He would have to tear the scroll from Longus’ stiff fingers, a sacrilegious act sure to outrage the gods even more. In preparation, Longus stretched his fingers and clamped down on the scroll again.

In a moment, Eliezer was back. He brought six or seven men with him. All grizzled with dirty tunics and grim faces, they gathered around Longus. For a moment, he feared they were going to hurt him. They could have easily overpowered him, but, instead, they each found some part of him to grab. Longus was yanked to his feet. When he started to topple backwards, he found support holding him erect. Eliezer gave him the stick, which converted from weapon to cane in his left hand. Slowly, Longus was propelled forward. He drove the cane into the ground with each step, poling across the sandy soil. He did not struggle, but allowed himself to walk, feeling the hot, sweaty men breathing garlic and leeks around him. He could barely stay upright, but he kept a firm hold on the scroll.

They were all doomed, he thought. Every man who walked on this hallowed ground would face the wrath of Pluto. They had trespassed into the realm of the dead. There was no hope for the living. He wanted desperately to leave, but could not. As far as he could see now, the ground was covered with graves. Each little plot of raised earth caused immense terror. He stifled a scream. All that emerged was a low moan.

He tried to avoid stepping on the graves, struggling to put his feet in the narrow areas between them, but his assistants had no such thoughts. They walked boldly through the cemetery with no consideration of any consequences. They allowed little space for Longus to avoid the graves. After a few moments, he, too, planted his sandals in the polluted soil and pushed his makeshift cane into the grassy surface. Tears glistened on his face, but the men with him continued to tow him regardless of low bushes or stones.

Longus tried not to look where he was going. He fixed his eyes on the trees. They seemed so far away. There, he was sure, he would find some safety. Perhaps that was a sacred grove dedicated to Athena or Persephone. He could pray there for divine protection.

His sweaty, grumbling companions seemed unmindful of the dark future awaiting them all. Instead, they continued to guide him forward, ignoring his whimpering and the dark dread filling his thoughts.

In a few moments, Longus found himself in front of a large opening. It had been dug from the soil and framed in wood. Resembling a black eye, it was round and clearly led downward. To Longus, it seemed the entrance to the underworld.

“No, no,” he murmured in despair. These were Pluto’s minions who had him in their grasp, not men. They were going to carry him to the River Styx. There, the terrible Charon waited. And, worse, he had no money to pay the fearful boatman. Longus almost fainted at that thought. How often had he heard of what happened to those who had died: the River of Forgetfulness; the three-headed dog and more. He would not be ferried across without a payment. The thought terrified him. At least those who confronted such horror were all dead. He was still living. He was almost sure of that.

“I cannot go,” he said, trying to dig his heels into the soft soil. He leaned on his cane, using it more as a tree than a crutch. His rough handlers did not pause. They pushed with unrestrained vigor and with less concern for his body. He was prodded, poked and pulled seemingly in all directions, but mostly forward against his wishes toward that dark abyss.

Longus had no strength to fight back. His eyes widened as he moved ahead. His cane thumped against the hard, dirty flooring. He had to lower his head to avoid bumping the stone roof. He was close enough to see that the entry was shallow, not one likely to carry him to Pluto. That did not soothe his raw nerves. He was returning underground. The mere thought only added to his dismay. He had just escaped one tunnel. Besides, even if this was not the road to perdition, it still led him closer to some furious ghosts. He bleated feebly, but his meager noises were smothered by the grunts and groans of those propelling him forward.

Finally, he stopped even the pretense of resisting. There was no point. His choice lay between ghosts and Guard. That wasn’t much of an option, but ghosts rarely came armed. They didn’t have to be nice; the best they could hope to do was blot out the sun. As far as he knew, the ghosts did not actually harm anyone who was living. On the other hand, Romans may not frequent cemeteries, but soldiers had no such compunctions. Their job was to create one.

The path was sandy. Longus’ sandals scuffed and slipped. He bent his back as the entrance swallowed him. Several of the men on his side had to step away or be crushed against the wall of this large tunnel. Longus could feel an immediate chill as he entered the cave. The sun gave way to a torch that marked the passage. At least he could almost stand. The cave did not get smaller. He only had to bend his head a little to avoid bumping into the roof.

Along the sides, he saw drawings etched into the uneven surface: here was a dove dipping from what must have been a stream, or sitting on a branch. A shepherd was drawn holding a lamb. Peacocks were popular, too. Here and there were fish, drawn simply with fan tails. In the middle, he saw several boat anchors, located far from the streams that attracted the doves. Other symbols included Greek letters, chi, iota, rho, tau. They did not spell any words, but had often been pushed together as if symbolizing something. One Greek word he did recognize was stauros, which means “cross.” Longus could translate it, but the word held no significance for him.

He stumbled forward. The downward slant of the ground helped provide momentum. Still, he needed the hands on him and the cane to avoid careening from side to side. Finally, guided by multiple hands, Longus reached the bottom of the entryway when the path leveled.

He stumbled to a stop and found himself in a narrow room with what looked like berths on either side, lined up in long rows. Torches lit the sandy-colored interior, illuminating the berths. Several held skeletons. He instinctively shrank back.

He had heard about this cemetery along the Via Appia and even laughed about it at parties. Why were pagans saving bodies? They vied to come up with the most ridiculous answers. Now, in the midst of the scene, he coughed in the musty air and felt horrified.

One area had been cleared so the people could gather together. Longus could see maybe two dozen men, women and children. Based on their thin tunics and bare sandals, all were poor. Most hung back. Children clung to their months, turning their backs and peering at him over their shoulders with frightened, wide-eyed stares. Longus tried to smile, but realized his dirt-covered face gave the wrong impression.

Someone gave him a small pitcher of water and a goblet. He poured some quickly and drank gratefully.

He could see Rachel sitting in the corner. She, too, was winded. She looked up with a wan face. He felt better seeing her there. She was not a friend, nor even an acquaintance. But, she was at least familiar. They shared knowledge of her grandfather. That was better than nothing. The only other person there Longus knew was Eliezer. He didn’t even recognize the two women who had helped clean him in the room.

Nearby, he could see bread and cheese set out on a berth. He would have tottered over there, but his energy was exhausted, so he merely plopping onto the ground. He was the object of curiosity for a few moments; then, the crowd receded into the shadows. A low murmur of conversation filled the small chamber.

Longus looked around. His terror slowly abated. They meant him no harm. They were not tormenters sent from another realm, but mere people like him. They, too, seemed frightened. That realization helped him feel better. Perhaps the god who had sent him an apple had not deserted him. He lay back against the wall and closed his eyes. At least, he felt at peace. Surrounded by the dead, he felt safe.

He heard some movement in the sound of sandals scraping against the earthen floor. He managed to open his right eye. Eliezer walked over to him and knelt beside him. “Your time has come, my brother,” he whispered.

He then moved to the center on the room and waved his arms for attention. Silence gathered around him.

“Greetings in Christ,” Eliezer said.

There were murmured responses.

“We will pray a moment and thank God for our deliverance. Sing to the Lord for He has triumphed gloriously,” he recited. He dropped to his knees and held his hands in front of him. His eyes closed. As Longus watched, the others did the same thing. Even the children. He was mildly amused. He had heard that Jewish religious activities were very different than the Romans, who never prayed on their knees. They would ask the god for something and offer a bargain in return: perhaps a rich heifer for sacrifice, a carafe of wine. These were tangible things that a god could understand.

What a strange belief, Longus thought. He had little contact with Jews in Rome. Most lived in squalor along the Tiber River. Still, some of their practices were well known. Even food was distributed to poor Jews on Sunday to avoid making them work on a Saturday in violation of their odd beliefs. Still, kneeling seemed so odd. The Romans had never understood the Jews, Longus realized, since Pompey the Great had entered Jerusalem as its conqueror so long ago. Everyone knew the story how Pompey had marched through the room in back where the Jewish god lived. Supposedly, he found an ass tied there. Longus didn’t see any animals in this catacomb, but then, he reasoned, it could be hidden or, maybe, someone had made a drawing of one on the wall.

Eliezer kept his eyes closed for the longest time before rising. Longus could see the dirt on his knees, but also noticed how thin those knees were. Eliezer apparently spent a lot of time on them. They were calloused and hard. No wonder Rachel easily outpaced him.

“Amen,” Eliezer said as he stood. Others repeated that word.

Longus was glad he wasn’t Jewish. That constant rising and kneeling would have been very hard on his body.

“My brothers and sisters,” Eliezer continued. “We have received a letter from ….” He paused and looked at Rachel.

“Patmos,” she called.

“It’s a Greek island,” Eliezer explained. The others looked at each other blankly. They were obviously confused.

“It comes from John, the brother of Mattathias ben Joshua,” he continued.

That seemed to help a little. At least Longus saw heads nod.

“It is in Greek,” Eliezer added in a loud voice that echoed around the chamber.

Disappointed comments followed. Eliezer held up a hand again. “God has provided. We have brought someone who can read it with us,” With that, everyone turned to look at Longus. “He can read it,” Eliezer pointed.

Longus felt the intensity. He also felt frightened. They were watching him so closely. Hands flicking from his face to the scroll held tightly in his hand.

“Now?” Longus said pitifully. He just wanted to sleep. He rested his back against one of the stone beds. For a moment, he envied the skeleton. No one would bother its repose. His legs stretched in front of him. A small boy drew back, holding his nose. After a moment, an older woman took his sandals. He watched her with distraction, as though the filthy feet were someone else’s. She held them away from her and went off to get them cleaned. He watched her vanish into a dark passageway.

Longus felt exposed. Pleading eyes stared at him. “Can I take a bath?” he asked.

Eliezer shook his head. “We have no baths in these catacombs,” he said.

Longus pulled at his soiled clothing. “A new pallium?’ he asked.

“We are poor people,” Eliezer said. “We rely on Christ.”

“Ask him for a very large one,” Longus suggested, before realizing Eliezer was not referring to a tailor.

“Perhaps we can find something later,” Eliezer said. His gaze fell on the scroll. Longus held it protectively closer to his body. He glanced around. Rachel smiled and nodded at him.

Longus sighed and put the scroll on his lap. He would have to read it as best he could. He held it up. People followed his movement. Their eyes flicked from the scroll to his face and back again. He slowly unrolled it. The parchment had a curl to it, so he had to hold both ends.

It had been so long ago. He had a flash of memory when Democritus, his tutor, handed him a similar scroll. He had unrolled it with eager anticipation only to find the Greek lettering. Someday, Democritus had insisted, you will read this. Longus had been skeptical. He could only see lines of unfamiliar letters. Yet, somehow, eventually, he had struggled through the linguistic minefield. His reading had been halting and uneasy, but he had succeeded in reading it. That had been 15 years ago. Would his memory return?

He looked at the first paragraph. The letters swam together. He closed his eyes, trying to regain focus. Rachel leaned over and gave him a piece of bread. He looked up at her and saw her expectant, hopeful face. He took the bread. Not long ago, he would have spurned such coarse food. Now, he ate it. He could feel dozens of eyes bearing into him.

He took a deep breath and returned to the scroll.

Slowly, he read the Greek, moving his lips as he read. He could understand the basic sense of the opening paragraph. Several words were unfamiliar, but Kone had been used among close friends as a kind of secret code. He was relieved to find that he understood most of it.

He looked up and reported, “Some guy named Jesus was telling the writer about something going to happen. I guess, pretty soon.”

He glanced around hopefully.

Eliezer knelt next to him. “Could you read it as it is? The message has much meaning for us,” He did not sound pleased. A hint of annoyance caused the words to grate across his throat.

Longus nodded. “I will try,” he said. “My Greek is rusty.”

“God will help you,” Eliezer assured him.

“He’ll have to,” Longus muttered. He again read the first paragraph. Some of the words started to make more sense. He could work out a couple of the unfamiliar words from their context. The process took him several minutes. He could feel the tension in the room. They wanted faster results.

“Wine?” Rachel interrupted.

He looked up. She was holding out a small clay goblet. He gratefully took it and took a big swallow, trying to avoid dripping it onto the scroll. He almost spit it out.

“It’s water,” he exclaimed.

“Our Lord turned water into wine,” Rachel said.

“He missed this cup,” Longus grunted. “Tell him to try again.” He handed it back and returned to the reading. He could feel the eyes cutting into him and felt the impatience gathering around him like a dust storm. He refused to rush.

After a few more minutes, he straightened. The room quieted.

He read slowly:

The Revelation of Jesus Christ, which God gave unto him, to show unto his servants things which must shortly come to pass; and he sent and signified it by his angel unto his servant John: Who bare record of the word of God, and of the testimony of Jesus Christ, and of all things that he saw. Blessed is he that reads this, and they that hear the words of this prophecy, and keep those things which are written therein: for the time is at hand.

Abruptly, everyone in the chamber fell to their knees. Eliezer clasped his hands together. “What a blessed day,” he said solemnly. Rachel imitated him. Longus just looked puzzled. People didn’t tend to respond this way to books. They were rare and expensive, so they were treated carefully, but no one started praying. It must be a Jewish thing, he decided.

“Should I go on?” he asked.

Everyone nodded. There were muted cries of encouragement. He read the next paragraph:

John to the seven churches which are in Asia: Grace be unto you, and peace, from him which is, and which was, and which is to come; and from the seven Spirits which are before his throne; And from Jesus Christ, who is the faithful witness, and the first begotten of the dead, and the prince of the kings of the earth. Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood, and hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father; to him be glory and dominion forever and ever.

Longus looked up. “This letter is from John and it going to seven temples. He wishes everyone peace. So do seven harpies from some kind of throne and from that guy Jesus again, who is apparently the god of the dead who died for our sins.” He looked up. “It’s unclear, but the blood makes us kings, according to the letter, but then says he’s the king.”

“A revelation,” Eliezer cried.

All of them bowed their heads and prayed. Longus just looked puzzled. These people were crazy. Maybe they’d get him some more food. He’d be happy to trade some more lines of translation for something worth eating and some real wine.