You Are Saved

excerpt from the novel Whoever Touches the Mountain

Words by Zachary Smolar

Art by Scott Tierney

You lost your father’s coin in a chicken yesterday. The little feathered demon ate the coin like it was feed. You couldn’t have swallowed a coin with such ease—in a way, it was awe-inspiring to witness. But also it was a heartbreak, because you like the chickens, you really do, you don’t want to hurt them. And later in the night you had to open it up, you had cut it surgically down its breast and dig into its guts, eyes hunting for a glint of silver amidst the slime of digested feed, and you found nothing. Nothing. But it ate it, so smoothly, you saw—what the fuck, how in the world is this possible? How have you let this happen to yourself? How are you this fucking stupid? You muttered to yourself as you buried your victim on a quiet berm overlooking Victor’s little house. You covered its little night-black body, that beautiful color specially bred by the breeders in the Auguraculum, and you knew that this chicken was irreplaceable. 

Your heart went thud thud thud thud thud thud 

It still does. You can’t stop it. 

Maybe the chicken’s intestines were a passage to the World to Come. Maybe your life has been touched by God. Or maybe you just have the worst luck in the empire. Misfortune doesn’t just happen. One has to deserve misfortune. And you, you moron, you fat fuck, you hollow orphan of the world—you deserve misfortune like a dung beetle deserves a pile of shit. 

* * *

There was a time in your past when luck favored you, when you were on top of the world, when you were one of the beautiful people. That time is gone. You are alive, and you should be grateful for this, this should be enough for you, but after experiencing the world from on high, finding yourself so low has, more often than not, felt worse than death. 

Felix got you a job. Rather, he got you an owner. You are a slave. After what you did, it is a miracle you are still alive. No, not a miracle. Felix paid to smooth things over. Money is the miracle. You know this from the days when you wielded the miracle yourself, how gracefully you slipped through life, like on a cloud. There is nothing under the Roman sun that money cannot accomplish. But that is no longer your life. 

Your life is devoted to caring for the chickens. These are special chickens. Sacred chickens. In the Romans’ lunatic goyishe religion, there is a man called the pullarius whose role is to prepare chickens for auspices, the reading of omens. The way the pullarius reads this particular omen is: he throws a piece of bread to the chickens and watches for tripudium, which occurs when a chicken pecks at whatever bread is on the ground and a few little crumbs fall from its beak. That’s it. The chicken dribbles some feed; that is what you’re watching for. If tripudium is achieved, good things are bound to happen. A military victory, a good harvest, or else some minor victory: a wedding goes smoothly, sunny weather for the weekend. The augurs, their priests, ask endless yes/no questions, and the chickens answer by eating sloppily. If the chicken runs away or beats its wings or does not eat the bread, then, oh gods, that is a dark day. 

You have been a slave to the pullarius for ten years. 

You wear a collar around your neck that bears the name of the pullarius. Victor Antonius. A cousin of Felix’s. You can’t say that feels unnatural. An Antonius has owned you for years. Good to keep it in the family. 

Once, in the Circus, thousands chanted your name. Now, you are nothing. Lower than nothing. You are an errand boy to chickens. 

You will never be promoted to the title of pullarius yourself, slave, but you know how to do everything, how to toss the bread … that’s basically it. You do all of the grunt work cleaning the pens, et cetera, because Victor is pushing seventy years old and can barely move, and he leaves his sturdy little house—in which you sleep chained to a pallet in the kitchen like a dog—only when the augurs come and request an attempt at tripudium. And then Victor spends half an hour getting out of bed, leaning heavily on his cane. Outside, as he wobbles against his cane creating deep divots in the dirt, you hand him a piece of bread, and he fumbles it toward the chickens. His arc is pitiful. Half the time the bread does not go nearly far enough. You know you could do so much better. You were once an athlete, your body was cut from marble, and now … 

But, again, at least you are alive. You cannot complain. You cannot justifiably complain. The thing is that these chickens, allegedly, behave according to the whims of the gods. These chickens are property of the empire. They are hallowed, and so your murder-cum-dissection yesterday is not just killing a chicken, it’s a religious crime, a crime against the state. It might be treason. Look at that, you and your father, peas in a pod. 

So, you wandered up the hill from Victor’s home yesterday and buried the chicken, gave it a kind of funeral and cursed its murderer (yourself, you gnat, you leper), and you uttered a few scant words of apology to the false gods, out of compassion for the Romans who would be horrified to learn of the chicken’s unnatural death. Really, you apologized to the chicken. It wasn’t sacred, but it was still a living thing that bore you no ill will, despite the fact that it ate your silver denarius. The chicken did not know the coin meant anything to you. You like the chickens, you really do. You like sprinkling the feed and watching them eat, not because they’re holy, but because they’re normal. They don’t care that someone else is watching them eat. They’re just eating; they’re just living. But when you dropped the coin and saw the chicken nip at it and swallow it whole with no hesitation, all at once you were shaken with despair, and you didn’t know what to do, and then you were slicing the chicken in half with your blade. 

Okay, you were drunk. When you killed the chicken you were wasted on Victor’s wine, which you drink nightly (and daily) from the barrels that Victor’s merchant’s slaves carry over in litters once a fortnight. It was said that in his glory days Victor could once drink any centurion under the table. 

But he is old now, and though he still drinks a barrel a week, he hasn’t noticed that David has been watering it down by half, gulping the other half in secret. 

You are not a drunk. You’ve known drunks, stumbling wickedly through their lives with empty hearts. But your heart is too full, you are shackled, that’s why you need the drink. No, not need. Want. You want a drink in the evening. You want a drink in the afternoon. Sometimes, when Victor’s ornery grin makes you want to kill yourself, you want a drink in the morning. But it doesn’t matter how often you drink. The point is that you don’t need it. You can stop anytime you want. 

And sure you make foolish, desperate decisions when you’re on your fifth or sixth mug; you’re a slave with a lenient master. You’re chained up at night but he just chains you to your pallet and of course you can carry your pallet, it’s just that there isn’t really anywhere to go. Victor’s home is the safest place for you. You’re not as courageous as you once were, but you’re not scared either, not half as scared of your master as most slaves are, and that’s why you’re so fucking bored. And so far, you’ve managed to get away with every night you don’t remember. 

Killing the chicken is the first thing you’ve done of any consequence in years. 

You keep thinking, if only you hadn’t dropped the coin. If only you had picked it up before the chicken. You’re slower than a chicken. 

But you would have killed it even if you weren’t drunk. You’d have had to. It had your coin. And you need your coin. Well … 

Why do you need your coin? 

She’s dead. She’s gone. It’s been years. 

But when she was living, she had one too. 

As long as you have your coin, you have your sister. 

Right? 

After the burial, you went back and slept and no one noticed the missing chicken, because you are the only one who gives a single shit for the feathered little things. You slept poorly. The room spun and your heart went thud thud thud thud thud 

No, you are not as afraid as most slaves. You are protected. But you still have a collar round your neck that tells the world your owner is an old pullarius named Victor Antonius. At night, collar at your throat, you cannot find a comfortable position to sleep. Not sober at least. 

Your body is an old piece of fruit, browning in spots on the outside, mostly retaining the shape and structural integrity of its younger form, but inside nothing holds together. You have bet your body in a game against the gods and lost it fair and square. 

You’re getting fat. Because you cannot run anymore—you limp and hobble—and your slave work requires so little physical effort, there is an ever-thickening layer of blubber lying atop your once-cut muscular body. Your scars droop. You are still bulky, your neck thick and veiny, your hands broad and hairy up to the knuckles, but your face is plump, and your stomach protrudes though your scratchy slave’s tunic. 

Victor likes to mock your girth. In his old age, he is thin, shrinking. In middle age, the body fortifies itself. In old age, it eats itself.

This morning, you wake to prepare the chickens, minus one, not that anyone notices. You’re heaving yourself up from the pallet when Victor creaks in. 

“Get moving, fat ass, I don’t have all day,” he says. 

You hate Victor. 

Used to be, when you walked down the street, people would stare at you, at your body, admiration plain on their faces. Even if they didn’t know who you were, they knew you were someone significant. Just look at you! Now, you are a slave, and you look the part. People look through you, their gazes preoccupied. Look at who? 

Today, the augurs arrive—always so self-important, wearing their priestly robes, their faces carefully shaved—and order a test for tripudium. You wonder what it is today. Perhaps they are checking the weather. Perhaps the emperor’s stomach is upset. It is a stupid fucking religion, but how much stupider than the one you were born into? 

Victor whiffs the toss. The chickens act like they don’t even see the shortfallen feed. They cluck around, beat their wings. 

For a moment the augurs stiffen. They hold their breath. Their faces pale, some actually turn to green. Eyes bugged out. 

“Give them a minute,” you say. 

“We know!” an augur snaps. 

Testy little Romans. Perhaps today’s question is of greater importance than you realized. One chicken finally toddles over toward the feed. It looks curiously to the ground, as if suspicious. And that’s when you begin to sweat like the augurs. Does this chicken know one of its kin is missing? Do all of them know? Yes, they all know it, they know about the coin, you can tell, and they are afraid to eat. Afraid to be killed. Could it really be? Do these chickens have a greater awareness than you realized? Will they organize a hunger strike? What will happen to you if these chickens never achieve tripudium again? 

If the chickens are aware, then are the gods real? Do the Romans know something you do not? You’ve mocked their faith as superstitious, but these chickens—they are avoiding your gaze, as if they know what’s in your heart and are disgusted by it. Suddenly you know it as truly as anything: the gods are real, and they are angry at you. 

But then the chicken pecks at the feed, bobs its little neck, and swallows. Several crumbs drop from its beak. “Tripudium,” you breathe, oozing with relief that you need not reckon with a religious awakening today. 

“Are you sure?” asks Victor. “I didn’t see.” 

“It’s tripudium, Victor. It fell out, I saw it.” 

“Okay, okay,” Victor says. “Don’t give yourself a heart attack. I don’t think we could carry you to the doctor.” Victor laughs a genuine laugh. 

You say, “Ha.” 

Sometimes you are superstitious. It doesn’t mean you believe in anything, just that you are afraid of everyone, of everything. 

At the peak of your fame, you sometimes felt that there was some thing watching over you, someone with the power to protect you. And now, in your new life, superstition comes upon you occasionally, whispering fears and nervous energy in your ears. Superstition flirts with you. 

There was a morning, years ago, back in the good days. You were lying in bed, the sun coming through the silk blinds of the home you owned, and Naomi was petting your scalp, her body spooning yours, cooling your heat with her calm. She said, “Your hair has a little tail.” You hadn’t noticed, but you could feel it as she ran her finger down the back of your neck. “I like it,” she said, “even though, in my father’s land, they say the tail brings bad luck.” 

The next morning, you had a servant shave off the tail. Naomi didn’t comment on it again, and soon she wasn’t around to comment on anything anymore. 

You still shave the little tail now, even though you’ve stopped shaving your beard. Why? What’s the use? How has your luck been since you started shaving it, huh, you moron, you slave? Maybe you should stop shaving it, but now you fear your luck will only worsen if it grows back. How could things possibly get worse? You don’t know; that’s what’s so frightening. 

A few days after your murder, Felix visits you. Felix is waddling into middle age, but he is still vigorous even as his head is bald but for a couple of desperate wisps and his calves are covered in sea-blue varicose veins and his ass alone could feed a pack of hungry wolves. His belly is round as a drum. He prefers to be carried by litter than to walk but if he must walk, oh, it’s a sight. 

He finds you lounging out back near the chicken pen in the old half-broken chair Victor lets you rest on when he ties you up in the yard. He’s at the market, and you’d rather be alone here than carrying his purse. You’re stripped to the waist, lounging, drying out—blazing headache this morning, sometimes the sun does wonders, but today, as Felix comes around the house and calls out to you, the sun is letting you down. Your skull is thunderclaps. Your eyes burn. 

For years, you did not see Felix. He was the procurator of Jerusalem, governor of the home you cannot even imagine anymore. For years, you did not have the friend in high places who routinely saved your life. When he returned, his term over, he expected you to have freed yourself by borrowing or earning or stealing the money for manumission. 

Before he left for Jerusalem, you suggested that perhaps Felix could pay that fee, he said, “David, I was born a slave, and I freed myself. I found the people who had power and I attached myself to them, and I did it from the lowliest starting place. I’ve trained you well. You can do the same.” It seemed to you like a lot of work. All the uncertainty, it scared you. At the end of the day, you’d rather keep your neck in chains than risk it by fighting for your freedom. You coward. 

Felix hated his job in Jerusalem. He said it was more trouble than it was worth. Crazy Jews killing each other, he said. Glad it’s over and done with. You didn’t ask for details. You didn’t want to know. You coward. Now he’s back, and you know you’ve failed some sort of test by accepting, for years on end, a fate that he implored you to reject. 

He blocks your sun. “I can’t believe the Nubians let you live,” you say. 

“I will never go back,” he says simply, as his slave brings him a chair. Felix is back in town after spending a month in Africa. At this stage in his life, having already served the empire, he travels to exotic climes for most of the year, but he still spends three or four months on Capitoline Hill. And whenever he's in town, he visits David, often with a gift. What was he doing in Africa? Oh, visiting some king, accepting a bribe or two, nothing major. And a safari. 

“What’s that?” 

“You’ve never been?” 

David, already in a dour mood, feels a cloud over his head. “You know everything I’ve done for the past twenty years.” 

“Yes, David, I know,” Felix says, not unkindly. “You didn’t miss much anyway, just a lot of drinking in the litter with the hopes of spotting a rhino. I mean, who gives a shit about a rhino?” 

“It wasn’t worth the wait?” 

“I didn’t even see one! I saw a lion, several zebras, leopards, and other cats of varied stripes, but no rhino, who was the main attraction! They told me, ‘Come see some rhinos.’ Got nothing.”

“You lead a tragic life.” 

“Anyway, I came for the rhinos, but I stayed for the fruit. I couldn’t bring any back because it would spoil, but I did find the one merchant in town who had it. Most expensive trip to the market I’ve made in my life, but I had to get it. It’s simply too good. It’s—it’s like nothing else.” He lowers his eyes in a meaningful glance at your bare gut, marked and crisscrossed, brown, and ripe in the sun. “It’s also healthy, which gods know you could use. Do you just sit there eating all day?” 

“You’re making the gift not worth the hassle, Felix.” 

“Just saying, maybe you should lay off the chicken. Get it?” You cringe. 

Felix reaches into the cart his slave dragged with him and lifts, with difficulty, a piece of fruit so humongous and green and hard that you cannot imagine anyone eating it. “It’s called a watermelon,” Felix says. 

“Thank you, but what the hell do I do with it?” 

Felix helps himself to Victor’s largest knife and slices the watermelon down the center. Once halved, you see the inside of the fruit, red and dripping, freckled with black and white seeds. You run your finger along the inside, its texture rough, its membrane so thin yet so hard. You stick your finger into its cool and wet body and then you dig your whole hand in and you scoop out a hunk like the beating heart of an enemy and you tentatively take a bite and it is so sweet and sticky and refreshing that you forget the collar round your neck and you smile. 

“Watch for the seeds,” is all the smiling Felix has to say. And then, “I was going to cut it, you know, but this works too.” 

“Felix, thank you. This is outrageous. Have some.” 

“It’s okay, I have five at my house.”

That Felix has stuck around in your devastated life all this time is a kindness that boggles your mind. In his company, you feel like your true self, the self you were when you lived high, the self who is not a slave. It goes without saying: it would have been easier for him to let you die. But he didn’t. He pulled every string he held to make sure you were not executed, got you one of the most peaceful positions a slave can hope to have, and has continued to check in on you as a benefactor would to a charge. He has voluntarily become your patron. You, who are nothing. The only explanation is that Felix actually loves you, considers you a true friend. And the knowledge that you are important to Felix, that he wants to sit with you for hours and reminisce about the good old days … Sometimes, you want desperately to embrace him, to thank him, weeping, clutching his toga, for everything, for all of it—but you never do. 

You tell Felix nothing of the dead chicken. You don’t want to ruin his day. 

The next day Victor makes his first trip to the chicken coop in four years. He wakes earlier than the norm and decides to watch the sunrise by the hill that borders the coop. Why? Because you have the worst luck in the empire. As he passes the coop, he looks in at the sleeping beasts and notes one missing spot in the pen. He screams, and you wake, knowing instantly what has happened. 

“What?” you say when he tells you. “How? Who could have done this?” 

And then there is a manhunt. A chicken-hunt. The augurs show up, inspect the scene, and both you and Victor express your concern and your cluelessness. Announcements are made, soldiers are dispatched, and the citizens are told to be on the lookout for a sacred chicken. Whoever finds it will be given a reward, and that reward will triple for anyone who turns in the bastard who absconded with it—or, gods forbid, killed it.

You feel a rush in your stomach all the time, the roar of blood in your ears. You are in danger. There is a reward on your head, though no one knows it is your head. The punishment for the criminal, when he is caught, will be death. Most likely, by crucifixion. 

Your drink this morning is sweet, like watermelon. 

Two centurions come by Victor’s home to inspect the crime scene. “Did you kill the chicken?” one of them asks you. He is of average height and build, and his nose is so delicate, like a little pea. “No.” 

“You know how serious this is, yes?” 

“I’ve been caring for these chickens for years, sir. I feel I’ve lost a personal friend.” To your surprise, Victor comes to your aid. “We live together. I’d have noticed if he sneaked out to murder a chicken. And what reason would he have? This man is a noble slave. He has taken to this work with grace. This is his vocation. He’s not a hater of chickens or the gods.” You are touched, despite yourself. And he’s right; there is no reason for you to kill a chicken, none but for the specific and unknowable truth. 

Despite Victor’s valiant effort, they still take you away to be interrogated. They lead you from Victor’s house, bring you to the Mamertine Prison on the northeastern slope of the Capitoline. They leave you in a cell in the stinking darkened dungeon. No matter what David says, no one listens. 

The sweet lump of fear, multiple lumps really: in your throat, in your stomach, in your calves when you pace your cell. You are living on the edge, and you adore it. 

Maybe it’s a day later when they pull you out of the cell and drag you to a room upstairs with a small window overlooking the courtyard. Down in front of the prison, guards are eating bread and slowly readying themselves for the day. It’s morning. 

In due course, two centurions enter the room, the same who visited Victor’s home, escorting a small man with a silken tunic and some delicate, expensive jewelry around his neck and on his fingers. He has a low forehead and thin wrists. “My name is Gaius Galerius. I am the emperor’s accountant to the augurs. You are the slave of Victor Antonius who is called by the name David, yes?” 

“Yes, that is me.” 

“Before you found yourself in service to the pullarius, you were a gladiator.” 

You’re surprised. You smile, despite yourself. “That’s true.” Did the man see you fight? Does he remember what you once were? 

“And you fought under the name … Hebrew Hercules, is that correct?” 

“So you’re just reading that off the parchment?” you ask, your smile fading. 

Gaius Galerius gives you a patronizing smile. “I’m not really a sports fan. But I’m sure you were very impressive.” 

You visualize grabbing this little bureaucrat by the throat. 

“Do you admit that you murdered one of the emperor’s sacred chickens?” 

Does he really think you’ll confess so easily? “I do not.” 

“Do you admit that you are a spy for the Hebrew zealot organization known as the Sicarii?” 

What? “What?” 

“Do you confess that the Sicarii instructed you to sabotage the emperor’s augury?”

“No, that isn’t what happened at all.” You’re confused. What was the augury even for?

The accountant looks at you, revealing nothing. “Does the name Eleazar ben Menachem mean anything to you?” 

“No.” It’s a strange relief not to have to lie. 

You stare at each other, each of you trying to pull the truth from the other’s gaze. “Where is the chicken?” 

“I do not know.” 

The rich little Roman stands, brushes his tunic. “You should get comfortable here.” 

The last time you were in a cell like this, you were about to be executed. It was a sure thing then, and you reckoned with it, welcomed death, in the end. Now, though, you aren’t willing for this to be the end. To plunge from the heights of life— famous, beautiful, and wealthy—immediately into death is the stuff of legend. If they kill you now, you’ll be just another dead slave. A slave with a past, sure, but who remembers the past? 

Felix finally comes to visit you a day later. 

Felix knows you better than anyone, certainly better than Victor. And because Felix is an endlessly wealthy Roman who knows that the state religion is a purely mortal endeavor and that the gods are fairy tales, since Felix could not care either way about the chickens, he finds the whole situation funny. But he still has enough tact to be cautious. 

When he comes to visit you in your cell, when he sees you in your filthy tunic, the taut nervous grimace on your face, he laughs at you. And because he’s the only person who might be able to help you, you let him. 

“I’ll say,” he says with a wink, “whoever killed that chick better be the luckiest motherfucker in the world, because if he’s not”—wink—“he’s probably going to be crucified very, very soon.”

“It’s my guess,” you say, “That whatever bastard did the deed did in fact have a good reason, even though it was likely short-sighted.” 

“And what of the bastard’s luck?” 

“One could argue the bastard is the luckiest man in the world.” 

Felix’s giggle jiggles his chins. “One could certainly argue that. Now, David.”

“Yes, Felix?” 

“You’re a smart man, yes?” 

“I like to think so.” 

“So, what would you guess is the reason for such a horrendous crime? Just a guess.” 

You rub your chin and squint off into the imaginary middle distance. You hope, you assume, that there are no guards within earshot. “I would say that, knowing these chickens, they have the tendency to pick up and eat just about anything.” 

“Is that right?” 

“And perhaps the killer was … looking for something … inside?” 

Felix flat-out chortles. “Do you think he found what he was looking for?” 

You blush when you say, “In fact, I don’t think he did.” 

“David, that would be a really fucking dumb reason to get yourself killed.” 

“Well, let’s hope the bastard gets what’s coming to him.” 

“May the gods bless us all,” Felix smirks. 

You think he’s about to leave. You close your eyes to prepare for another stretch of dark lonely hours. But then you hear, “Now, are you ready to leave this cell or not?” 

Felix brings you to his home (you are technically in his captivity) and offers you his guest bed for the night. You haven’t done this since he was training you to fight. Together, you drink several jugs of particularly strong resin wine—syrupy and bitter and impossible to stop drinking once you start, it coats your throat with numb—and share some more watermelon. Once drunk enough, you find the nerve to say, “They were asking me about zealots. Names I’ve never heard. What is this about?” 

Felix shrugs. “Let’s just say, Jerusalem is going through some leadership changes at the moment. They’re afraid of a coordinated Jewish effort. So when anything’s amiss, if there’s a Jew anywhere nearby, it’s worth checking out.” 

“What was the question the augurs asked?” 

“That doesn’t seem like the kind of thing a slave should know,” Felix smirks. You take another pull of resin wine. Felix could never keep a secret. 

“But it appears that Imperator Nero, in his infinite wisdom, trusted the chickens with asking … if the Jews will retake Jerusalem for themselves.” 

Your heart goes thud thud thud thud thud 

Jerusalem free of Rome. It sounds like a fantasy. It could never happen in his lifetime. But the emperor fears this. He thinks it’s possible. 

You take another pull of resin wine. 

Eventually, you start to yawn and stretch and make a show of your tiredness, but Felix tells you you’ll have to stay awake for a little longer. He’s expecting a visitor. “Well, we both are.” 

You fall asleep in your chair, and Felix slaps you awake when the visitor arrives. Felix’s slave escorts an old man into the atrium: stocky, hunched and poorly dressed, with a bludgeoned forehead, scalp bald as a stone, beard to his naval, eyes bright, gait slow and jagged, body thin and knobby. 

“Do you recognize me?” he asks. “Because I sure recognize you. I’d recognize you anywhere, though we’ve never met. I know the other side of your coin, so to speak.”

And yes, though this man looks only hazily familiar, who else could he be but—“Paul?” you ask. The man smiles. He likes to be known. And even though you know the answer, you ask, “Is Rebecca with you?” 

Paul’s smile vanishes. No surprise. “Rebecca hasn’t been with me in some time. Years.” No surprise. But it still hurts. 

Paul looks sidelong at Felix, something you can’t read in his expression, an understanding beyond you. Felix says, “I have some errands to attend to. Please, speak in private.” You’ve never seen Felix excuse himself in his own home. He even takes the slaves with him. 

And then you are alone with Paul in the atrium. It’s late and the candleflames dance in the cool breeze. “You know,” Paul says, “Your sister was in Alexandria …” 

“I know, I just—you never know.” You’re embarrassed. Of course she’s dead. Of course. But Paul nods with kindness in his eyes, and you believe that yes, he understands. “Have you been looking for me?” you ask. 

“I was. Well, that’s a half-truth. I’ve lived in Rome for a few months now. And honestly you hadn’t crossed my mind. But Felix and I … know each other. He told me of this business with the sacred chickens, and it got my thoughts going.” 

“Right, but why?” 

“David, as a follower of the Way, I can’t stand by and watch you suffer.” 

“I’ve never been a follower of your Way.” 

“That can change. You can make a change.” 

“What if I don’t want to?” you ask, hoping to hurt him, but he doesn’t flinch. 

“I think you want to. I think the life you’re living is no kind of life at all. I think even if you get out of the mess you’re in, you’re living a half-life.” 

All you can say is, “Paul, I don’t know. It’s late. I’ve … I’ve had some wine.”

The old man grins. “Okay, I know when I’m not welcome, so let me give you my spiel and then I’ll be off. We can protect you. We can give you purpose. We can free you from this life of slavery. You’ll no longer live in debt to a Roman who has killed scores of Jews and Nazarenes.” 

“Felix?” You ask. Murdered scores? 

Paul gives you an odd look. “I can’t stand to be in this place,” he says. Then he leaves. 

* * *

“You have to join them,” Felix says, upon hearing the whole thing. 

“Really?” 

“These Nazarenes are gaining popularity by the day. They’re the real deal. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole empire is Nazarene one day. They need a Latin name, though. Better to carve Latin onto a stone.” He sets a hand on your arm. “Join them. No Nazarenes have been killed in Rome. This is your only option, David, considering …” 

“Oy, the chicken.” 

“By the time they discover it was you, you’ll be under their protection.” 

“Can they really protect me? Will I have to leave town?” 

He skirts the question; he knows he’s already convinced you. “David, I know you’re not happy. How could you be? I didn’t want slavery to be the rest of your life. I wanted it to be a means of survival until the next opportunity. The opportunity is here, take it.” 

“You sound like my mother.” 

“When?” 

“When she told me to follow you.” 

“And look how well that turned out.” 

How to make the decision?

Felix’s endorsement aside, there is another reason you are attracted to the Nazarenes. It is superstition, creeping up behind you, breathing sweetly down your neck once more. Superstition telling you that Paul found you for a reason, that because you invited the wrath of the gods, Paul’s messiah is welcoming you into the fold. Some sort of cosmic justice. You are not special; you have that universal deep ache in your heart, a longing for protection. You feel unsafe, and you want to feel safe. That’s why the Jews believe in God, that’s why the Nazarenes flock to Yeshua, that’s why you left town with Felix all those years ago. And now … if you must run into the arms of someone, and Paul is willing, maybe you should start running. 

Another factor in the decision, another check in the convert, run home to papa Paul column is this: a little boy follows the footprints of a wild dog and discovers that dog excavating the sacred chicken from the shallow grave you dug for it. His scream calls the attention of the augurs who are out searching the vicinity of Victor’s property, and the augurs take this new evidence straight to Victor’s home, who sends them straight to Felix, evidently frustrated that his fat cousin has pilfered his fat slave from him. “It was cut with my knife!” Victor tells them. “I can tell!” Which is bullshit, but the augurs believe it, because they want to believe it. It just so happens to be true. 

So, here the augurs come now, you can see them through the open window of Felix’s dining room, there’s two of them, hazy snide figures looking like they’ve just closed their case. You and Felix are having breakfast together, watermelon and whiskey, lounging on the triclinium. You both see the augurs, and you lock eyes. Felix says, “Go out the back.” 

So the decision is made for you. 

You embrace Felix. “I’ll visit you when I’m back in Rome.” 

Felix says, “Yeah, I’ll hold my breath” and he removes the collar that bears his cousin’s name from your neck. There it is again. Some thing—Fortune? The Anointed One?—has decided on your conversion.

You walk very slowly, very calmly through the streets. You are not wearing your collar. You are not a slave. No one can tell. You are wearing nightclothes, but they’re the nightclothes of a patrician, so you don’t appear criminal, simply odd. Yes, some people are looking, but that’s only because, yes, this is odd. You are a very big man walking around in nightclothes. And now more people are looking, and tapping their friends and pointing, Look, and so you move, you move move move, and suddenly you’re running again, and it’s so good, it’s so fucking good, and you lose everyone, and you find where you need to go. 

You cross the Pons Fabricius to the far side of the Tiber, where most of the Jews live. Again people are looking: that’s one big Jew wearing … a goy’s pajamas? You ask everyone, “Paul? Paul?” and a befuddled stranger points you toward a blessedly close house, with a cross on the doorframe where the mezuzah should be. You made it, you can’t believe it, you are saved. You knock on the door, and the door gives way without anyone opening, and you push yourself in and slam it shut, and heave, heave a couple breaths, and then, only then do you turn around and see Paul, at a worktable, overseeing two very frightened apprentices, measuring out swaths of canvas. The apprentices are frozen in fear, but Paul has a giddy smile on his face. 

“I’ll join,” you tell Paul as way of greeting. He steps around his apprentices and grips your shoulder and thanks you. And you ask, “Where do I need to go?” 

“We’ll stay here,” he tells you. “Rome will be the center of our movement going forward. It’s where we’ll build the great church. Welcome home. We want you here at the front lines. We think you’ll do great work.” 

“What? No, but, I’m being chased, I have to leave town. How are you going to protect me?” 

“They won’t come here. Not for your crime.”

“I don’t understand.” 

The small voice of an apprentice: “Me neither.” 

Paul shushes his student and turns back to you. “A new loophole in the Roman religious code,” Paul explains. “Certain crimes against the state religion are not nearly as serious for followers of a different faith. Call it, hmm, tolerance. To a Nazarene citizen of Rome like you, killing that chicken is on par with merely destroying a neighbor’s property.” 

“No, that makes no sense. They’re sacred, they’re religious, it’s treason.” 

“To the augurs, yes. But not to Nero, who approved this little nuance just yesterday at the suggestion of your friend Felix Antonius.” 

Your breath catches. “Felix.” 

“Nero likes the idea. He’s very modern about religion, being a complete unbeliever in anything other than himself. His thought is that the whole lot of priests and temples suck up too much of his money, and any idea that balances those scales is welcome. Less serious crimes mean fewer executions, which are expensive, and more fines, which go to the state. This particular fine, because of the sacred and sentimental value of the chicken, was substantial. Felix Antonius paid it directly to the emperor. And now, here you are. Untouchable, as long as you’re a Nazarene.” Paul embraces you. 

All you can say is, “Felix.” 

“Obviously, this was all his idea. He came to us. We are thrilled to have you here, David, but it’s not as if it is happening for no reason.” 

Again, superstition defeated. Again, luck you don’t deserve. Again, Felix. How can you ever thank him? And then you think on what Paul just said. “Who is this we?” you ask. Footsteps from the adjacent room. A door creaks open. And there he is. He is aged, but you know him. You did not expect him to be here, but of course he is. Peter. The man who told your father to burn in sheol and stole his family before his body was cold. He wears a lived-in tunic and a mantle so big it dwarfs him. When he spots you, the boy become man, prodigal son returned, he stands gawping under his low ceiling. 

Your heart goes thud thud thud thud thud 

You search your heart and find it empty of resentment. You hated this man as a teenager. But now, he reminds you of home. “Stepfather,” you say, “I’ve missed you.” 

Peter takes a step toward you, and then another, and in the time it takes you to figure out what he is doing, he has done it: He gives you a hug. A deep, crushing embrace. “If you only knew how much your mother and I hoped for this day. I’m sorry she isn’t here to see it.” 

Soon you’ll be baptized, and you’ll take the agape meal on Sunday, you’ll consume the body of Christ and his blood, and Paul and Peter will teach you the words, and the lessons, and you will begin, blessedly, slowly, to let go of the ego that has tormented your whole life, not just your life as a slave. You won’t chafe against your past anymore; everything was necessary. It all led you to right here. 

Paul will teach you to believe that you are nothing, that the past is done, even the Law of your ancestors, done, and that the future is in your hands. 

You’ll stay awake with them for a week straight, listening to Paul’s tales, praying with Peter, fasting during the day; you’ll see visions and speak in tongues, babbling for hours in ecstasy like a spirit. You’ll feel more exalted than all the wine in the world could make you feel, and you will stop drinking. 

You will believe. 

You will become steeped in elation. You will know truths the rest of the world does not. 

But before all that, that first night, you unpack your scant belongings in the hutch of a room that Peter has designated as yours. You left Victor’s with nothing but a spare tunic, so Felix gave you two mantles and a cloak. Felix gave you life. He gave you the clothes on your back. As you’re spilling your things onto your pallet, you hear a metallic tinkle. 

No. It can’t be. But it is. 

Your father’s silver coin. The coin that blew up your life. 

It was in the pocket of your other tunic. 

But you saw the chicken eat it! 

But then it wasn’t in the chicken … 

But you saw— 

THUD THUD THUD THUD THUD 

You are an idiot. A moron. You are old, you are fat, you are purposeless. You are the son of a traitor. You should be killed for treason. You belong in sheol. 

Everything you do is a mistake. You are a mistake. You are lost. You are so, so lost. But you’ve been found. Yes. You have. Peter and Paul have found you. It does not matter how. They have brought you to this house. They have asked you to call it home. You lie on your pallet and close your eyes. You breathe into your belly. Your heart’s thud thud thud thud thud thud isn’t so loud in your ears. Your head loses that frantic heat. You try to look at the entirety of your life, try to read it like a tapestry. 

Your life is a quilt of mistakes. But every mistake has led to a blessing. What’s the harm of one more mistake? 

Then again, you are your father’s son. You know one mistake can change the world. 

About the author

Zachary Smolar is a writer and filmmaker from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, based in Los Angeles. He holds a B.A. from Brown University and an M.F.A. from NYU Tisch School of the Arts. He works as a producer for Toei Animation and his award-winning independent work has screened in over 30 international film festivals. 

About the artist

Scott Tierney's writings include the ongoing Neobook series The Adventures of Crumpet-Hands Man, the novella Kin, and the comic book series Pointless Conversations. His short-stories have been published in Bristol Noir, After Dinner Conversation, HumourMe, and read out loud at Liar's League. Examples of his art can be found on his Instagram page (instagram.com/scotttierneycreative) with more on his website (www.scotttierneycreative.com).