The end is near and it is His fault. An old man will be drug away kicking and screaming, and that man will be you, He said. Well, I did not scream. I said nothing. They bound my hands as He said they would, dressed me as He said they would, and prayed to their heathen gods - You did not say that, All-Knower! - a damned Roman saying a prayer for me... "Juno, keep him." I laughed so hard You must have been laughing too.
I stayed there for hours - her burbling breasts, red from my paws, red from Love! I told her that God was watching when she disrobed, that God wished for her to take me, and such beautiful blissful slipping...if this is not God, how could it not be?
I killed her. I know that now. There might have been a way to spare her, but God did not want it. The blade held fast to her chin, her legs moved, mouth stretched, and she died in ecstasy. I hope that is some comfort to you, brother. My collarbone still hurts where you broke it; the marks around my neck still frayed and livid, but she lives in our memory. The Sacred Feminine - I had to take it! When I told you I was sorry the third time, you would not hear me say, God wished it, the second.
The sun bleeds me now. The auspice-rakers gutted me, read my entrails, and it does not look good, ha, ha. I will be enveloped in the arms of the Father and no amount of your curses can stop that; you must know that God protects us but she was a Gentile. Your betrayal is forgiven, dear brother; I forgive you. The augur drives his stone deeper between my sawn ribs and, my God, why do they not sharpen these? So primitive in the South, the toothiness of their smiles, the sliminess of their grins, I wish for revenge and He will forgive me for that; He must.
I watch you under your hood, oh judgmental, wicked! You say nothing! Dismayed and satisfied, your filthy eyes steep. I killed her for you! For your good! She would have destroyed us, can't you see? You took an oath...to me! Our very tradition, no mixing, you promised, and now you eye me with death when they raise the plank and it hurts too much to cry.
I feel God swirling, his angels circling above. I remember when she came to our camp with wild eyes and dark, dirty feet; walked, did she? Lies! You had never seen blond hair before, fair skin before; you had never seen pale eyes and pasty lips that burn with the sun. Peasant! So taken, were you? Taken by the same brook where you told her you loved her, taken when you said she was whole in the eyes of the Lord, and you kissed her and she melted and I did what I had to do. For six months I tolerated the Tarsian, bringing the uncircumcised swath into our midst, but you, you tell me you will marry her...you kill me and our father! I am your father! Dad is dead and you will not shit on our Laws!
So I entered her, told her I was He, told her that God wished her to be part of the chosen, but that she must denude and consecrate, and she chose to believe, brother, was too foolish to realize our Beloved had been dead for sixty-six years. God will forgive me for what I have done for I have saved her. The moment the blade washed through her she was freed; you condemned her to death the moment you made your vow, the moment you spit in my face for telling you so. Now my guts are blood gobs on the ground, and for what? For a woman.
The Tarsian stands by you and I can’t help but laugh. Where will he take you? To Turkey? Convert the masses? I laugh. God forgive you as He has forgiven me. A rapist and murderer! You, betrayer! Which is worse? The bloody sodomite, Germanicus, of all people, you ratted me to him! I am pounding in my tears, gurgling in blood through my laughter thinking of you standing before that sick ruler of deviants. “I know where the Christian is.” Did you say it so simply? Did he reward you with gold? No. I see the sight of me now is reward enough.
The profane priest’s unsightly arms reach in, remove my liver now, and I am sorry; I denied our Master three times but atone to you four. I feel Him descending and He is here, brother. He and I are One – it is no lie this time. Marry that girl, Andrew, marry her in your mind or find another if you must; I feel pain sipping my ears, I hear echoes and goodness and…she is here. My God, the Girl from the West, can you see her, brother? She carries a sickle and her teeth are blackened and sharp in goading breaths… Dear God, what have I done? Only She remains (Where is He?), my veins, penetrating, dear Andrew, do you see this? Ripping my soul into her morbid bosom, it is gone, my life is gone, and I know now that only God takes, and I am not He.
The Secret Love of Andrew of Bethsaida
I saw you, for the first time, manage a cast net with gnarled fingers, only whose palms were feminine, only whose palms fed me light, delicate hazes of embrace, and knew that I loved you. I knew when your wishing lips ran untroubled over mine, when your hair held the sun and stones over the brook stood witness to our hearts pumping, our arms and legs joined, our washed tears and ’don’t cry, girl’s flinging into salt, flinging into openness, I knew then I would let myself empty into you and we would be joined together forever under God.
I told Peter first. It was noon; a cock rooted around in strange dirt, and I wondered what I would have for dinner. I knew Paul would preside, that you would accept our Lord, our customs, our child would be named Yeshua, and I would never fear that you would die.
Peter lay prone, over you, half-erect, dripping ungodly liquid; your throat streamed red; your eyes were content. I clubbed him below the neck with sharp flint and would have killed him if not for Paul. I can still feel the cells of his skin under my nails (I rankled them so deep) and look at them occasionally when I want to feel better, because Nero has turned on me, my love, and will put me to death as well.
I had a turtle once, trapped in my net. I was seven; Simon was older. He claimed turtles only breathed through their mouth and nose but I knew better – I had seen it. I submerged the serpent beneath the waves and let his bum rise, and turtles breathe through their backside, do you believe? And I thought of this and of you when his heart was ceasing and your body was strewn like a mass of weeds and twine.
He always told me who was right, what was wrong, what Father would have wanted, always. What did Our Father in Heaven want, brother? This? I murder you, murder you to death. If not for Paul’s hands strong as demons…I did not know him to be so powerful.
Shard of your bone, I can see it and it makes me content. Why violate her! For God? Bastard hypocrite. Perhaps Father would have killed her, but Father never knew Him, never knew of our Redemption, sick…unmerciful. I see you tortured to death in Hades and beseech any Roman god to make it so. I will break my Covenant and have – I confess I went to him, Roman God on earth, idolater, profane, surely the devil, he laughs with his very city in flames, but if God is God, he will condemn him, forgive me, and forsake you till the end.
The buildings burn brighter now – they hoist you and I am happy to watch you die among flickering glints of mayhem, but a magistrate has seen me, and Paul and I must go. A glimpse of you gives me, yes, gives me faith that He is indeed Good.
But don’t let him see me now, Father, shackled here – a cross as an X, I asked for – I am unworthy to die as our Savior but I refuse to die as he. Never like him, Lord! I am never to be like him. Can You hear?
I am the one who prayed to false gods and perhaps it is just that I die now. Perhaps an X is more stately and perhaps I will be as our father Abraham, remembered for all time, but no, only dreams, and now is the first I have laughed since her.
I see her here now, brother. Her lips, golden roses, the Girl from the West, the girl whom I loved. Her breath is sweet honeysuckle, her eyes are teary fruit; I love her, Peter, Lord, do I love her! I am gagged now – I continued to speak, continued to proselytize even here only feet from the ground. Children come by and pick at my clothes and even now I win them to our Christ. Did you hear? Paul was released. He told me not to go, told me not to deal with the devil Nero, told me to forgive (he always respected you, always wanted your approval, you never knew) but you, brother, what did you deserve? I deserve much more than this.
I hope when we meet we will talk of things like turtles. She takes away pain, kisses tears, loosens my binds – we will talk together with our Father there: you, me, the girl, Paul if he lives. I am not in pain, I am slick and my brow is feverish but she weeps with me and she is as Mother was. Does she not remind you of Mother? I still... how could you? I am gone, there are clouds breathing life, and I hope to God you are not in Hades, brother, I hope to God you are there when I reach the firmament in pale light, all is light… She was light.
I gasp one last time and give myself to Him – Redeemer, forgive my false gods, forgive my attack, forgive my forsaking of our Laws – I only did what I believed was right. Protect my brother Paul – he treads dangerous roads, forgive the girl if indeed she is in hell, but how can she be when she is here caressing my wounds, washing my blood, lifting me, and soon I am with You. Dear Father, I know only you take, and I accept, accept my brother unpunished if it be Your will, I accept the trial of my soul and my Flesh, I accept the wrongs, our clan slaughtered (Paul slaughtered many before You, will I be condemned while he goes unpunished?). Father, any fate for me, power and wealth for Peter, for Nero, anything, forgive anyone, forsake me everything, if only I can be with Her again.
Enemies of the Empire: The Execution of Christian Insurgents Simon Peter, Andrew of Bethsaida, and Paul of Tarsus
My name is Caius Masavo Felix, former magistrate and personal comite to our Emporer Nero Claudius Caesar, may He rest in peace. In light of the recent outcry from various domestic groups within the City, growing numbers of provincial immigrant communities, as well as few but notable members of the Citizenship, regarding the alleged wrongdoing of His Excellency having suppressed the dangerous outlier faction known as the Christians, I feel compelled to give testimony as to the details surrounding the execution of three well-known inciters of rebellion and, in some cases, perpetrators of crimes, participants in this newly-formed cult.
My reasons for writing this document are many, among them, a sincere desire to put the widely-held sympathetic view, especially among fellow Cives, toward these peoples in proper perspective, but more importantly, I confess, with some embarrassment, the main impetus of my commentary is personal.
Fellow Romani, Latini and members of the provinces, I am dying. The quill in my hand is cold to the touch, and it is much trouble to keep the stylus straight. Nevertheless, I hope this short abstract will serve to vindicate our fallen Hero, Beloved Nero, that history will not judge him harshly for his acts, and that these Christians (for whom I guard no rancor) will likewise receive their just due. In these, the waning days of my life, I am able to reveal that I was special envoy to His Excellency in all matters concerning the Christian superstitio for nearly seventeen years; I oversaw the capture and execution of the treasonous Christian conspiracy responsible for the Great Fire, rooted out the infamous fomenters of insurrection in Gaul and Sicilia, and personally tended to the capital punishments of the aforementioned insurgents. I am also versed in all documentation, official and otherwise, detailing the arrest and punishment of the Nazarene Yeshua, on whose teachings the sect is based, and am, undoubtedly, an expert on this curious group.
Firstly, I must say a few words on the man Yeshua, Christus as he is known within the Jewish sect (and now more and more among the general population). Christ was wrongly executed. I realize my impeding death affords me a certain level of candor that (reluctantly, I concede) would not have been possible when His Majesty was still alive. While my Master pursued Christians with an attitude of relished and perhaps misguided violence, Nero was unfortunately ignorant of the man Jesus, and, had he known more, might not have pursued his so-called followers with such zeal. Pontius Pilatus, our fifth procurator in Judea during the execution of Christ, wrote His Majesty Tiberius and confessed that “the crucifixion of the Jew was a mistake.” I could not agree with him more. No evidence of political insurrection on his part was evident during his life, and, from the records I have revised, it is plain to me the man, for the most part, devoted his life to the care of the sick, elderly and crippled, seeking, on the whole, to disseminate a message of comfort for the downtrodden and needy.
As for the criminals, Simon Peter of Bethsaida was a sexual deviant and killer of women. He was arrested and convicted for the violation and murder of a provincial woman of fifteen years, and was immediately and justly crucified by order of His Excellency. Though unconfirmed, he is suspected of using his stature within the cult to lure both men and women into immoral and illegal relations. Upon his capture, Simon Peter expressed overtly a desire to turn in fellow members of the superstitio in exchange for his freedom. I consider him to have been a vile example of a human being even within the confines of Christian orders of conduct. Andrew of Bethsaida, though innocent of murder or violation, was an especially fanatical malefactor, convicted of rebellion in Greece, having incited thousands of peregrini in the mid-regions to violate our codes of civic and religious duty. Paul of Tarsus was convicted of rebellion in Rome and rightly so but… Fellow Romans, as I write, I suffer from fits of uncontrollable coughing and have now regurgitated blood a third and a fourth time, I must say that Paul fervently and sincerely preached Jesus’s message as it was intended. I spoke at length with him before his death and abdicated on his behalf that Nero not crucify but behead him. Paul dedicated his life to the aid of the sick and poor much as his Master. Romans, it is clear now that I am dead not in days or hours but in minutes. I pray I maintain the strength to impart my final words.
The cult is a danger to the Empire, but only because it is a cult. I daresay all cults of all kinds are dangers to the empire [sic], even the cults of our own gods. Heretical, perhaps, but a dying man must be truthful. I see faded light, I state plainly that Truth cannot be organized and imparted in canonical fury either by us or the Christians; Truth cannot be bottled, and our sicknesses, the sicknesses of the Christian superstition, our own sicknesses are consequences of this bottling, this attempt to cement Truth. I go to Hades now, perhaps. I do not know. Truth be told, I am cold and this is all I know. My God! – I utilize their vernacular! – who knows what will happen and who we will meet on the other side. The Christians have wronged us, but I have wronged them too. So many regrets. A vision now, it is Paul with a sickle and a rose in either hand. He offers one and threatens with the other. Which shall I choose? I pray, Romans, that you do what is right, that the Christians are not blamed further for our ills (perhaps we should be) and that only the gods, and perhaps this God, takes, and now I am taken.
