Jeepers of Nazareth Cantwell - 212
JEEPERS OF NAZARETH
A TRUE AND HONEST ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF JEEPERS THE NAZARENE
. . . really!
By
R. J. Cantwell, Ph.D.
To the Humanists of the San Joaquin Valley
@Copyright, 2003, by R.J.Cantwell. All Rights Reserved.
No permission is granted to duplicate the contents of this manuscript in any form, including live performances, without first receiving authorization in writing.
PROLOGUE
In the year 7 BC (Judeo-Christian time) the Empire of Rome was ruled by a little known Caesar named Eggbert. He was a solidly built man with a cranial capacity that fell well within the range of an Australopithecine. Many considered his body and intellect to be similar to that of an olive tree. And so it came to pass that the name Eggbert Caesar was dropped (he had not cared much for the name Eggbert anyway, which is why his mother was sent into exile just after his twenty-first birthday) and was replaced by the name Tree Caesar.
It also came to pass in the year 7 BC, that Rome sent a naval task force on a mission to make contact with the poor but numerous populations of Judea known as Semites. An envoy was dispatched to the coastal village of Maritima ostensibly to arrange contracts for mutually prosperous trade agreements. Mutually prosperous trade agreements to the Romans, of course, meant lucrative taxation of the Semitic peoples and exploitation of their natural resources. To the wealthy Semitic landowners, it meant robbing them of the taxes and natural resources they were already robbing from the poor people.
The conversation that went on between the Roman Envoy and the Town Mayor went something like this:
Roman Envoy: “As you can see, Sidney, such an agreement will bring peace and prosperity to all parties involved.” His smile broadened and his eyes shown with the brilliance of Caesar’s wife’s diamond ring.
Town Mayor: “Well yes, Mr. Ambassador, I can see the advantages in it, but what about these legions of yours? How many of them will occupy our cities? We’ve heard of your recent conquests, you know, especially to the south among the rice-bread eaters.” His smile was frozen and his lips slanted more down than up. His eyes shown not at all.
Roman Envoy: “Oh no-no, Sidney,” the envoy waved it off, “Ease your mind. Only a few legions will be left behind, and that’s only in the capacity of peace-keepers to help maintain order and keep the riff-raff from interfering.” He reached out and gave a fatherly pat to the mayor’s knee.
Town Mayor: “I see. Peace-keepers, eh?” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, “And riff-raff? Uh. .” The mayor’s eyelids fluttered.
Roman Envoy: “Why yes, you know,” he leaned forward with his elbow on his knee and lowered his voice in confidence, “The riff-raff, the poor, the ones always carrying on about unfair distribution of resources – the Socialists.” He cocked one eye and winked.
Town Mayor: “Ah yes-yes, the Socialists, yes,” his hand went to his chin again. (It was true; the poor were always agitating for change – a constant threat to the status quo – and of course to the authority of the aristocracy.) The mayor leaned forward with his elbow on his knee and placed his face within inches of the envoy’s ear. “Are you saying that uh . . . I would have an opportunity here to uh . . .”
Roman Envoy: “Increase your profits?”
Town Mayor: “Well . . .”
Roman Envoy: “I would say so, yes.” The envoy’s head nodded and his eyes began to shine again with the brilliance of Tree Caesar’s wife’s diamond ring.
The town mayor straightened back into his chair, his mind intrigued with the imagined profits he could accumulate with the help of his newfound friends. And then he sobered.
Town Mayor: “Uh, but what about these legions? Will they be? . ?”
Roman Envoy: “Under the supervision of whichever magistrate has been elected by his people to govern in whichever province they find themselves in.”
Town Mayor: “Aha, yes-yes!” he nodded, “And as to the uh . . ?”
Roman Envoy: “The profits?” he leaned forward and smiled in a manner designed to relax a pacifist in the Whitehouse, “A very considerable percentage of every transaction that takes place.”
Town Mayor: “ Ahhh,” he hummed, thumping his ample midriff with his fingers.
Roman Envoy: “All you have to do is . . .”
The Town Mayor’s fingers hovered.
Roman Envoy: “Have your local constabulary support our legions in keeping the peace.”
Town Mayor: “The peace?”
Roman Envoy: “Keep the Socialist riff-raff in their place.”
Town Mayor: “Oh yes-yes, there’ll be no problem with that; our religion helps take care of that. Not to worry.”
A fly landed on his nose just then. He grimaced and flicked it off. Noticing the moistness of perspiration and lack of soothing airflow, he turned and glared up at where his slave should have been standing with the huge feather-fan. “Uh where . . ?” He turned back to the Roman Envoy. “Did you happen to see uh . . ?”
The envoy shrugged.
Town Mayor: “Oh well, no matter. Come, let us go to dinner and seal the bargain.”
He took the envoy’s arm and led him toward the giant marble arch where the stairs would take them down into the sumptuous dining hall. Tantalizing aromas beckoned them, and their stomachs churned in guiling anticipation.
Roman Envoy: “Truly do I smell the delights of roast duckling?”
Town Mayor: “Yes I do believe . . .”
They both hesitated. A different smell assaulted their nostrils, mixing strangely and less appetizingly with the former. It was an acrid, clammy . . .
Suddenly a shadow loomed forward through the marble archway. Glazed eyes flashed and a darkened arm rose. The gleam of a bronze dagger caught the mayor’s eyes just as it plunged deeply into the envoy’s throat. The envoy gasped, clutching wildly at the gushing wound, and fell writhing to the floor. The mayor looked up just in time to see three more sets of hands reaching for him. The bronze dagger flashed again.
The slave, still holding his master’s feather-fan, shoved his way forward and stared down at the two victims. Their eyes were racing and their chests heaving in a last, desperate attempt at breath. The slave set his lips grimly and nodded.
The mayor and the envoy were transferred to the chef’s cutting table and the slaves began sharpening their bronze knives.
And so it came to pass that the Roman Envoy was returned in a basket to Rome in August, September, October, November and December. January’s portion was lost at sea just off Cyprus, during a particularly violent storm. Only four separate baskets were sent to the Semite’s King Harold. The slave chefs had grown weary by the time they had gotten around to their mayor.
Now as to the reaction on the part of Rome’s Tree Caesar upon receipt of his envoy’s remains. Well it can be said that it was not favorable. “Why those dirty terrorist rag-heads; those filthy, insolent donkey-brains; they’re guilty of naked aggression! Now here’s what we’re gonna do – we’ll start a propaganda campaign that the Judeans are an evil empire and are massing their troops on the Phoenician border . . .”
And so it came to pass that in the year 6 BC, a great naval armada filled the waters of the Eastern Mediterranean, and set oar for the land of the Semites. Legion after legion of Rome’s finest waded ashore under a hail of bronze tipped arrows and spears, and the first man-made weapons of mass insult – great gobs of human excrement launched from catapults made of wood. The entire west coast of Judea fell under siege.
It happened now that the leader of the expeditionary forces was a Roman Admiral named Cornelius. His name is not well know because of a fateful incident that occurred just after the armada had reached their fail-safe point halfway between Crete and Cyprus. While attempting to relieve himself, sitting over the edge of his ship’s gunwales, a second ship whose rudder man had been startled by a ray of sunlight that had rebounded from the water’s surface and ricocheted off Cornelius’ behind, turned his rudder too sharply. The ship’s bow struck the flagship, pitching the hapless Cornelius to his doom.
Now it happened that the flagship’s pilot was a well-known and respected navigation officer whose name was Pontias. And so it fell to him, by popular decree, to take command. A courier was sent to Tree Caesar explaining the situation.
Tree Caesar, being of solid mind and body, cared less of the change in command – Cornelius had been no relative of his and he cared not in the least what his family’s connections were. As long as the mission was carried out and the wealth of Judea was transferred into his hands, why should he be concerned? His simple response was: “Attack and subjugate the Judeans!” The response was relayed faithfully and accurately to Pontias.
Now Pontias was not a man of ignorance. No man who has mastered the art and mathematics of navigation or diplomacy of leadership could be considered such. It occurred to him that an outright assault against a population of vicious body-cutters, who utilized weapons of mass insult in the form of human excrement gobs, could only lead to a long, drawn out engagement in which too many of his legions could be lost and profits curtailed. Besides it was a well known fact that people back home tended to lose interest in campaigns that went on too long, and support might wither.
It occurred to him that the Roman Envoy must have offered the usual lucrative bribe to some Semite official, but the question was – why hadn’t it been accepted? It simply didn’t make sense. After all, human nature being what it is, no wealthy member of any society would turn down an opportunity to earn healthy profits when all they had to do was support the Roman legions in their exploitation of the poor. Therefore, Pontias the pilot determined to seek out members of the Semitic aristocracy and once again make Rome’s offer of aid and trade agreement. The question would be – how to make contact, and with whom? It was rumored that the Semites owed allegiance to a king located somewhere inland near a sea that was considered dead. Perhaps – but who could he send that would be willing to go deep into enemy territory, and who for that matter wouldn’t be cut up into a dozen pieces? Well there would be no guarantees on that last part, so the courier would have to be someone expendable. “Uh . . . Cassius, send in that Nilot.”
King Harold was not a happy man. The Maritima mayor’s remains had come to him in four separate shipments – the legs, private parts, the torso with arms, and lastly the head. It was the bulging eyes of the last shipment he had disliked the most. After all, Sidney had been family. And now here, a year later, he receives this message from his cousin’s murderers, and it’s in Roman script to boot. “Who can read this rubbish?”
“Maury, get me a scribe!”
“Yes your majesty.” Maury turned and then hesitated. “Um, your majesty, there’s only one I know of that’s available right now, and it’s a female. Will that be alright?”
“A female? I thought all the females were being rooted out of the priesthood?”
“Well
yes, that’s true, but she’s an old-timer; been around since your
father. And well, what with the new rules on sexual harassment . .
.”
“Yes-yes, alright,” King Harold grimaced. He waved his
hand in disgust, “Bring her in. Can she read?”
“Hebrew,
Sanskrit and Cuneiform, yes; Hieroglyphics no.”
“Roman
script, you idiot; this stuff!” King Harold slapped the parchment
scroll with is hand.
“Uh yes, your majesty, I believe she can.”
“Alright, bring her in.”
The visibly agitated priestess-scribe was ushered in and flung unceremoniously to the floor in front of King Harold. She looked up, saw his irritated expression, and immediately cast her eyes back down to the floor.
“Look up, woman!” the king commanded, “It is said you can read Roman script, is that true?”
The priestess looked up and gauged the length of the parchment scroll quickly. It would do no good to deny her abilities, since they and they alone kept her employed in her envious position – food every day and the like. On the other hand, her literacy in Roman script was limited.
“Well speak up, woman!” King Harold barked.
The priestess nodded. After all, no one else in the room professed a knowledge of the script. She could wing it, if it weren’t too complicated. “Who else would know?”
“Well then, here, read it to me – out loud!” the king ordered. He proffered the half uncurled parchment to her and settled back on his throne.
The priestess took it gingerly and unrolled another half-length. Nine-tenths of it looked like hen scratch. A bead of perspiration rolled toward her right eye, the left peered cautiously over the top of the parchment at the king.
“Well?” the king said.
“Um . . . it’s from a Roman Admiral named uh . . .” She spelled out the word Pontias and recognized the word pilot, “Pontias Pilot.”
“Yes-yes, go on,” the king said. Then he hesitated, “Pontias Pilate? What kind of name is that?”
“Haven’t the foggiest, your majesty,” the priestess lowered her eyelids.
“Well … it doesn’t matter. Go on, what does he want?”
“Uh, he uh . . .” the priestess’ mind whirled. Too many words were going over her head. Only the words, trade, land, wine, and wheat, were familiar.
“Well?”
The priestess formed what little saliva she could and swallowed. “He uh . . . he wants to trade wine for wheat and land.”
“What?” King Harold squawked, “Wine for wheat and land? Does he think we’re crazy? We’ve got all the wine we need, and I sure as hell am not going to trade any of my lands to him. Maury?” He turned to his chief advisor, who happened also to be his first cousin, “Maury, what do we tell this shmuck, this Pontias Pilate? I’m not going to give away my lands and my wheat for a bunch of lousy Roman wine.”
Maury
cocked his head to one side. “The Romans are said to have many
legions of soldiers and a huge navy. Perhaps we should be
cautious.”
“Cautious yes, but I’m still not going to give
away my lands and wheat. We have precious little as it is. There’s
people starving all over; we’ve had a drought; there’s been
sickness, rebellion . . .”
“Yes I know, your majesty, but it would do no good to antagonize these Romans any more than we already have, particularly in the use of our weapons of mass insult.”
“Well,” King Harold waved his hand and looked away.
“Perhaps uh . . .”
“Yes?” King Harold’s ears perked.
“Well how about the lands around Maritima? Cousin Sid’s already dead, and his people in retreat all along the coast. In effect, they’re already lost.”
“The
whole coast?” King Harold frowned, “We’ve lost the whole
coast?”
“Yes, it’s a route.”
“Didn’t anyone stand and fight – the dirty cowards? Humph!”
“Well sure, but Roman legions are said to be advancing on all fronts, raping, pillaging – the works. Refugees are swarming inland at an alarming rate in front of the advancing hoards.”
“Arrrggh!” the king snarled, “And they’ll all be wanting food too.” He looked up, “Alright, here’s what we’ve got to do: There’s no way I’m going to give up my lands, other than what’s already been taken, and there’s no way I’m going to go on accepting all these refugees tramping on my wheat fields . . .”
“But
sir,” Maury interrupted him, “What about the legions, they’re
advancing on all fronts? There’s no way to stop them.”
“Yes
there is. Now don’t interrupt me.” The king cleared his throat,
“Look here, our priests tell us our god is all powerful and all
knowing. Isn’t that right, Priestess?”
The priestess gulped and nodded. “Yeah, right, you gullible goose.”
“Alright, so I propose this: We send a message to this Pontias Pilate putz, telling him we do not have to trade with him, and that he’d better get his heathen legions out of our lands and withdraw from our shores, or our god, our lord and savior, will smite him and send him to the fiery pits of hell, where his skin will blister and burn away and his eyeballs will melt and pour out upon his cheeks.”
The king straightened back on his throne, placed both hands on his knees and beamed triumphantly. “Ah and . . .” he said, raising his finger, “if any of our Semite brethren should die in the glory of battle, they shall ascend to the divine bliss of heaven where they shall sit at the foot of almighty god, our lord and savior, and uh . . . drink wine and partake of young women for all eternity.”
Maury rocked back on his heels. “You want us to send all that in one message?”
“Yes! Yes! Put the fear of god into them.”
“But
. . . what if they don’t believe it?”
“What? Everybody
believes in god . . . don’t they?”
“Well . . . should, but what if this Pontias Pilate doesn’t?”
“Nonsense! If he doesn’t, he will after receiving my message.”
“Well alright, but if he doesn’t his legions may reach the city gates, and then what?” Maury said.
“Ahh!” King Harold waved it off, “They’ll never get this far. God will protect us. We are the chosen ones. All we have to do is let this Pontias Pilate putz know it. Now . . . who shall we get to carry this message?”
His eyes darted to the priestess. “You, Priestess, you can speak Roman; you go, you carry the message to this Roman shmuck.”
The priestess shrank back. An icy chill ran up her spine. “Oh uh no, your majesty, I uh, I’m too old. I have aches and pains, and uh . . . humors. I’m too infirm.”
“Nonsense!”
the king scoffed, “You look fit as a camel. You’ll be just
fine.”
“No uh . . .”
“Actually,”
Maury intervened, “she does look a bit infirm for such a journey,
your majesty. She might not make it, and then our message would be
lost.”
“Well you then, what about you, Maury? You’re young
and strong enough.”
“Uh yes but . . .” Behind him, Maury could hear the lungs of the priestess exhaling in relief, and immediately poor Sidney’s bulging eyeballs came into mind. “I am unable to communicate in Roman, so actually . . .”
“Well who then?” the king bellowed, “Who shall we get to carry the message? Have we got another priest?”
“Uh well actually, your majesty, I was thinking more along the lines of the Roman slave-soldier who carried the message to us,” Maury pointed to the parchment scroll still dangling from the priestess’ hand, “The slave Tyrone.”
“Oh? But what if he doesn’t speak Hebrew; or what if he refuses to deliver the message back in an accurate manner?”
“I’m sure he will. He has no reason not to. Oh, and he does speak Hebrew; says he learned it from the rice-bread eaters.”
“What, he’s Egyptian?”
“No – Sudanese. He comes from the Upper Nile.”
“Oh . . . well . . .”
Pontias the Pilot looked up, startled to see his messenger, the Nilotic slave-soldier Tyrone, standing outside the tent flap. Tyrone looked unexpectedly fresh and seemed to be in his customarily brash mood, if his animated conversation with the tent guards was any indication. Pontias frowned. Tyrone had been gone less than a week, and here he was back already and cheeky as ever. “Alright,” he called out, “Let him in! Let him in!”
Tyrone’s grin broadened. He ducked and strode in on legs way too long for a human. “Hey Ponch baby, what’s happening?”
Pontias winced. “Ponch baby? By Caesar’s ghost, this barbarian was an insolent toad.”
“Yeah uh, hi Tyrone, glad to see you got back safely.” “Considering the condition our envoy was in last year, what was it – five separate baskets? This barbarian’s got more lives than an Egyptian cat.”
“So what did they say to my offer?”
Tyrone’s
face sobered. “Well that’s the weird part, Ponch, they said a
lot, but not much that made any sense.”
Pontias the Pilot’s
face sobered equally. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If this Nilotic nuisance tries to pull a fast one . . .”
“I dunno, Ponch, I want to give it to you straight, but well you know the water was refreshing, but my mind’s a little fuzzy, uh . . .”
Pontias the Pilot grimaced. “Yeah alright.” He reached for a flask of red wine and a wooden goblet. The silver ones were reserved for himself and his centurions. Although he was convinced one of the goblets at least, one day, would find its way into the bandit’s hands. “If only the Judeans had been a little more considerate – body parts for an answer would have been just fine.”
He watched as Tyrone drained the goblet. “Okay, so what did he say, this king of theirs, will he take the offer?”
Tyrone wiped his mouth. “Well now you see that’s just the thing . . .” He raised his eyebrows and motioned toward a bench.
“Yeah-yeah,” Pontias said. “More cheek than a hippo. My centurions don’t get this familiar.”
Tyrone
plopped down with his ankle over his knee. “First of all, the king,
Herod I think his name was, refers to you as . . .”
“Wait,
what’s his name?”
“Uh, Herod, I think they said it was.”
“Herod? That’s a strange name. Humph, a Semitic aberration, I suppose. Anyway, go on.”
“Well he calls you Pontias Pilate, first of all, and . . .”
“Pontias
Pilate? Where does he get that from?”
“I dunno, boss, but he
don’t seem too bright none, I can tell you that. And fat, man that
dude is fat! I mean real fat, like the word, obese, don’t even
start to describe . . .”
“Alright, alright, I get the picture. And he’s dumb, eh? Is he as
dark as you are?”
”No, man, he ain’t dark like me. He’s
white, even whiter’n you. But I mean he’s got shadows, he’s so
fat. Them big gobs of fat just a-shakin’ and jigglin’ – he’s
got boobs bigger’n . . .”
“Okay-okay; enough with the fat already! What did he say about the offer? Will he give us the grain and wine, or what?”
“Well now you know, that’s the weird part,” Tyrone leaned back
and re-crossed the other leg, “You see, he didn’t seem to have
understood the message we give him.”
“Didn’t . . . What do
you mean, didn’t understand? I spelled it out for him as simply as
I could; he gives us grain and wine, we give him protection and
guidance. He gets to make a profit to boot. What’s so hard to
understand about that?”
“Don’t know boss, but here’s what he said, best of my recollection anyway, uh . .” Tyrone looked down at the empty goblet in his hand.
Pontias sighed and reached for the flask again. Tyrone enjoyed another long drought while Pontias controlled his breathing.
At last Tyrone settled the goblet on his knee and looked up. “What he said was this, uhhh . . .” he rolled his eyes up to the ceiling and pursed his lips, “Oh yeah, and these are his words; you can shove yoah wine up yoah ass, and if you-all try to steal his lands, you-all gonna end up in the fiery pits of hell with yoah skin blistering and yoah eyeballs melting out their sockets.”
Pontias stared at Tyrone for a long moment, and then puckered his face into a roadmap of greater Jerusalem, “What the hell does that mean?”
“Dunno boss, that’s what he said.”
“We’re kicking his butt from the Mediterranean to the Sea of Galilee. All he’s got to fight with is bronze and stone.”
“And human excrement,” Tyrone put up his finger.
“Well yeah, I’ll give you that. But still, we’re making kills at a hundred to one ratio. Our body counts are so high, we’re running out of parchment to record them on.”
“Well, boss, I know that. But see, he says he’s got this god, and this god will protect his people from harm. And here’s the good part; if you kill a Semite, they don’t really die.”
“Don’t die? Where’d he get that idea? I smote a couple of them myself, just the other day. Take my word for it, they die.”
“Well see, this is what he said; a Semite doesn’t really die, not all of him anyway. A part of him, I believe it’s his feet, go to a place called heaven, and . . .”
“Wait-a-minute – his feet?”
“Well, the soles of his feet.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“Well, he actually said sole, so maybe it’s just one of them. But anyway, he was pointing up toward the ceiling of his palace. He said that was where the heaven place was.”
“The ceiling? When he dies, he goes to his ceiling?”
“He could’ve meant the sky. I couldn’t really tell. He was just pointing upward.”
“Sky? Ceiling? What difference does it make? This guy’s crazier than a wart-hog.”
“Yeah, but it gets better. Get this; he says, if we don’t withdraw, his god will smite us all and send us to a place under our feet, where it’s so hot our skin will blister and our eyeballs will . . .”
“Alright- alright! I heard that already. Meengya!” Pontias paused and reached for the wine flask, “So he says, if we kill anymore of his people, his god’s going to smite us and send us to a hot place? That’s his defense?”
“Well actually he didn’t seem too upset over us killing his people. He seemed more concerned over his land and grain.”
“Aha! Well now we’re getting somewhere. He sounds like a man we can do business with. So . . . why didn’t he accept our offer? We give him the power to rule within reason, along with our protection; he gives us a minor tribute of lands, grain and wine. What’s wrong with that?”
“Yeah, makes sense to me too, but he didn’t seem to get it. Just
kept rambling on about how his god was gonna protect the Judeans and
send all of us down below. Says, if he dies, he gets to go to a place
in his ceiling.”
“Or the sky.”
“Yeah!”
“Humph!” Pontias sat back down on his bench behind the table and reached for his silver goblet. “You think all these Semites believe this stuff, or do you think it’s just a bluff? Because if they do, it’s going to be a lot harder to subjugate them.”
“Dunno boss. We got some people in a village nearby. You want us to check?”
Pontias poured the wind into his goblet, and then narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, bring a bunch of them into the camp parade grounds. I want to question them myself.”
The Semite villagers huddled in rapt attention as Tyrone spelled out Pontias the Pilot’s questions in Hebrew.
A portly man of elder years (about 45) stepped forward. He was wearing a long, gray robe in contrast to the more conservative garments of the others. “I am the rabbi of this village,” he said in broken Roman, “I speak for my flock.”
“I don’t want the opinions of your sheep,” Pontias said curtly, “I want to speak to the people.”
“My flock is the people. I am a servant of the lord and shepherd of my people.”
“I see. You call your people sheep, and you wish to speak for them?”
“That is correct. I am a servant of the lord. I, and only I, have permission to speak on his behalf. I . . .”
“Why are you wearing a dress?”
“What?”
“Are you a half-woman?”
“What? No!” the rabbi flustered for a moment, and then gathered his wits. “I, sir, am a servant of the lord, and I was made in god’s image. God is a man – I am a man. Women are made of Man’s rib. As you can see, I am a man!”
“Really? Centurion, raise his skirts!”
The centurion’s sword flashed, the rabbi’s robe was lifted, and his dignity compromised.
“Oh! Oh!” the rabbi cried out in indignation. His hands plunged downward.
The centurion grinned and pulled back his sword. “Well I guess he is a man,” he smirked.
“Hm, sort of. Alright, look here, baldy, we want to get some information from you.”
“I’ll say nothing as to the distribution of our troops,” the rabbi countered bravely.
“What troops? We don’t need to know about the distribution of your troops. We already know about their distribution; they’re either dead or running. What we want to know is; do all you Semites believe in the same god as your king does?”
The rabbi stared at Pontias the Pilot in bewilderment. “Why . . . why of course we do. Everyone does. There’s only one god, the lord god on high, our heavenly host and savior. How can you even ask? Why . . ?”
“Alright!” Pontias cut him off, “And you people all believe that when you die, your feet are going to disappear and go to some special place in the sky?”
“Or the king’s ceiling,” Tyrone said.
“Shut up, Tyrone!”
“Okay?”
“Baldy?”
“Uh . . . yes, no, no, not our feet, our soul! Our bodies are only a shell to house our immortal souls. It is our souls that will ascend to heaven to live forever in the splendor and glory of god’s favor.” A look of serene rapture crossed his face.
“Live forever?”
“Yes, for all eternity in the splendor and . . .”
“Alright!” Pontias held up his hand, “So if we smite you now with a sword . . ?”
“It will do you no good,” the rabbi lifted his chin, “I have prayed to the lord for protection. You may pierce my skin, but pain will not assail me. You may bash my head, but . . .”
“Stop! You want me to stab you in the gut, and you don’t think you’ll feel any pain?”
“Uh well . . .”
“Centurion, draw your sword!”
“Oh! No-no!” the rabbi backed up a step and raised his hands to protect himself, “If you do, you’ll go to hell. I promise you, you’ll all go to hell!”
Behind him, his flock hunched and gasped in fear. “Uh rabbi . . ?” one of them reached out his hand.
“No-no!” the rabbi shook his head, “If you attempt to smite me, the lord will punish you all. You will be sent to the fiery pits of hell, where your bodies will writhe and blister, and your eyeballs will . . .”
“Stop!” Pontias raised his hand.
The advancing centurion stopped.
Pontias stepped forward with his hands on his hips and looked down at the distraught rabbi. “Alright now, we’ve heard this before. So you and all your people believe that, if we smite you, you’ll go to some place up in the sky . . .”
“Or the king’s ceiling,” Tyrone reminded him.
“Shut up, Tyrone!”
“Okay boss.”
“Or in some god-damned ceiling, where you’re going to spend all
eternity farting around at the foot of some god?”
“Uh . . .”
“And we’re all going to be sent to some pit that’s underground in a place we’ve never heard of that’s all full of fire?”
“Well . . .”
“Tell me, baldy, is this heaven of yours the exact opposite of hell?”
“Why uh . . . yes of course.”
“And your hell is a hot place?”
“Why yes, your skin blisters and . . .”
“Then your heaven must be freezing cold, agreed?”
“What? Why uh . . .”
“And unless your robe has a soul, you must have to go up there buck-naked. Which means, you’ll be sitting there with your bare butt on an iceberg, groveling at the foot of some god. Doesn’t sound like a good deal to me.”
“Uh what, uh . . . but no, you see you’ve got it all wrong. There’s no uh . . . iceberg? What’s an . . ?” He wrinkled his nose and looked over at his shrugging flock.
“You’ve never seen the Alps, have you? You want to know cold, try crossing the Alps?”
Several of the Centurion’s veterans nodded sagely.
“Alps? But, but, I’ve never heard of . . .”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought; fantasies; these people are just a bunch of donkey-brains, haven’t seen enough of the world to recognize fact from fairy tales. Come on,” Pontias waved to the men, “There are no gods here for us to worry about.”
Now it came to pass that the rabbi might have lived a long life, had it not been for his sense of piety.
“Oh but you are wrong,” he called out, “You will see; there is a god, and he will punish you, all of you. He will send you to the fiery pits of hell, where you will burn and blister, and your eyeballs will melt and flow down your cheeks, and . . .”
Pontias stiffened his back and whirled around. “Enough!” he said, “Now listen to me; I will spare your life, if you promise never to utter such nonsense again. Frankly, I’m getting sick of it.”
“Spare me?” the rabbi’s eyes glared, “But sir, I’m sorry, you are in no position to spare or kill anyone. Such matters are up to god. Only god can make such decisions. Attempt to smite me, sir, and you will be punished.”
Pontias ground his teeth and sucked in his breath. No greater fool had he ever met. He studied the rabbi carefully. “Did you say, earlier, that if we stab you, you’ll feel no pain?”
The rabbi shook his head emphatically. After all, the man and his soldiers were walking away. “God will protect.”
One of the villagers leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, “Uh rabbi, maybe you ought to . . .”
But it was too late. Pontias looked meaningfully at his centurion and then pointed to the rabbi. “Lower abdomen,” he growled.
“Uh sir, are you sure?”
Pontias leaned toward the centurion’s ear. “Look, if we don’t, this bald-headed toad will tell the villagers his god protected him. He’s not leaving us any choice.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right. Okay, Guido!”
A soldier stepped forward and lifted the rabbi’s robe, bearing his lower abdomen. The rabbi started to protest, but the centurion’s iron sword flashed. The villagers gasped in horror.
“Ah-how-wow-wow-w-w!” the rabbi screamed, clutching at the area where his bladder had been pierced. Blood oozed out between his fingers. He sank to his knees, his face crimson and contorted.
Pontias stood over him, hands firmly on his hips. “Now tell me, rabbi – does that hurt?”
“Uh-hmmmmm-m-m!” the rabbi rolled his eyes and nodded.
“And do you feel yourself ascending to the sky?”
“Or the king’s ceiling,” Tyrone said.
“Tyrone!”
“Okay!”
“Well, rabbi?”
“Uh-ummmmm-m-m!” the rabbi shook his head.
“And do you see me descending into a fiery pit beneath your feet?”
“Uh-ummmmm-m-m!” the rabbi shook his head again.
“That’s what I thought,” Pontias turned on his heels and started to stalk off. Then he heard the rabbi’s quivering voice.
“But we are . . . the chosen ones.”
“Oh yeah? Chosen for what?”
“Ummmmmm-m-m!” the rabbi groaned.
“Uh boss?” the centurion said.
Pontias stopped. “What?”
“What do you want us to do with him? He is in pain.”
“Oh . . . yeah, hmmm,” Pontias contemplated for a moment. He could see that the villagers were concerned and restless. “Yeah, okay, put him out of his misery.” He turned and strode off with Tyrone at his side.
“Yeah, I’m starting to see the picture here,” he said, “These people are delusional.”
“Think so?”
“Yeah. They live in a hot desert; they bury their dead. So obviously, heat and death, to them, are related.”
“Yeah?”
“Okay, so they’ve invented a place they can go to, after their body dies, that’s up in the sky about as far away as you can get from being dead and buried – and which is the exact opposite of the underground hell that their god can send their enemies to.”
“Uh-huh!”
“Yeah, I can see the psychology here. To a bunch of uneducated demon-freaks, who have been beaten up and picked on so much in the past, this is about the only defense they can come up with.”
“Defense? What defense? We just stuck a sword in his gut. He’s gonna die in agony.”
“Fantasy! Even if he does die, in his mind he thinks he gets to go to a special place where he doesn’t really die, but gets to live on forever. And we, of course,” Pontias smirked, “We’re going to be punished by his god and end up in some fiery pit with our eyeballs melting, no less.”
“Yeah-huh!”
Pontias scuffed at a pebble with his sandal. “Sit down and think about it, it’s just wishful thinking.”
“Yeah . . . what?”
“Wishful thinking. Fairy tales. Look, here we are sweltering in this Judean pizza-oven, sand in our sandals, grimy sweat under our armor, hating every minute of it. So, naturally, what better way to get back at us than to tell us we’re going to die and go on sweltering like this for all eternity. And to top it off, they get to go to a place that’s the exact opposite – cold. It’s obvious they’ve never seen the Alps.”
“Yeah uh . . . what are the Alps?”
“Oh, I forgot, you’ve never been north of Sicily. The Alps are a chain of mountains that separate civilization from the northern barbarians. Now I’ve got to tell you, it’s damned cold up there. Crossing the Alps is more than a challenge. Rome lost more men to frostbite than were ever killed by barbarians anywhere. Yeah, you can have their heaven.
The centurion watched as Pontias and Tyrone disappeared over the knoll. Then he turned and looked down at the distressed rabbi. “Okay, Guido, go ahead and uh . . . put him out of his misery.”
“What do you mean, sir? Do you want me to kill him?”
“Yeah, the boss said to put him out of his misery.”
Guido looked down at the rabbi. “Yeah, that’s okay if it’s a dog or a donkey, but this guy’s human. Sometimes killing a human only gives him more misery. I know I wouldn’t want to be killed.”
“Well yeah, I guess you’re right. Hey, old man, you want us to put you out of your misery, or what?”
The rabbi looked up, his eyes swimming in pain. “No-no, I don’t want to die.”
“See?” Guido said, “That’s what I thought.”
“Well yeah but, he’s in a lot of pain. How else you gonna put him out of his misery?”
“Well, we could give him back to his people; see if they can patch him up.”
“Well . . . Hey people!” the centurion called out, “You folks want to take him back to your village and patch him up?”
The villagers all surged forward, nodding their heads.
“Yes, we’d be glad to take him back.”
“Yes, absolutely!”
“Thankyou!”
The centurion waved his hand. “Okay, go ahead.”
“Gee, I dunno,” Tony, one of his sergeants spoke up.
“Eh? What? What don’t you know?”
“I don’t think he’s gonna last very long. You stuck him pretty deep.”
“Yeah I had to, the boss was watching.”
“Well, he’s got yellow stuff coming out with the blood. That ain’t a good sign.”
“You don’t think they can patch him up?”
“No sir, I don’t. I think the wound will just fester and putrefy, and then the plague will follow and the whole village will get sick.”
“Uh-oh! Uh . . . you folks hear that?” the centurion said, addressing the villagers, “You still want to take him with you and try to patch him up?”
“Uh-uh!”
“No-no!”
“He’s too far gone.”
“You’d be best to put him out of his misery.”
The villagers all shrank back, their heads wagging to the negative.
The rabbi looked up in alarm. “No-no!” he cried, “I’m feeling better now. Really, I’m just fine. It only hurts a little. God will provide.”
“No-no, rabbi, we don’t want you to suffer. It would be better for you to give up the ghost now. God will reward you.”
“Oh but no, see . . . see, I’m much better now,” the rabbi cried. He attempted to stand up, but the effort was too much and he sank back down to his knees.
“Yeah, Guido, I think Tony’s right,” the centurion said, “You’d better go ahead and put him out of his misery. You ready, buddy?” he asked the rabbi, “Where do you want it?”