A FURTIVE SCRABBLING

Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 1

He had imagined Antioch to be a desert port by the water's

edge, but Antioch, like Rome, is inland. At Seleucia he is

passed from a seagoing vessel to one of the many merchants who

ply their trade up and down the river and is taken upstream to a

large city in a green and pleasant land, for although it is

close to the Kalends of February the days are warm and the rains

are gentle. A great carven head gazes from the hills,

overlooking fields of plenty.

For nearly two weeks Malinus Stilio has known nothing but

the sea, its swells, and its storms. His world shrunk to the

size of a boat, a place where all faces are known. That world

vanished when the ship entered port; now it passes beyond

recall, torn apart by the clamour and the stink of a riverside

harbour. Faces crowd around him, babbling in tongues: a mass of

strangers, jostle and push against him, instinctively he tries

to guard his possessions. Out of nowhere someone grabs his arm;

Stilio flinches and tries to fend them off. He forces himself

into calmness: it’s just some merchant wanting to foist his

putrid dates, that's all. He moves away from the quay and the

floor buckles beneath him: when he looks up to the hills, he

sees great looming walls and a massive weathered face peering

out from the ancient cliffs: cliffs which rise and fall, rise

and fall.
 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 2

This is the first time he has walked on dry land for weeks.

His stomach roils and his legs are weak; he must find a place to

rest. Pushing through the crowds he manages to stagger to a

nearby hostel. A blur of exchanges ends with a tiny windowless

room and a straw pallet to use as a bed.

He is awakened by the noise. Stilio walks downstairs into a

wall of sound. The common room is packed. Voices shout to be

heard; talking, singing and laughing. In every corner self-

assembled teams of musicians try to outdo each other in a

discordant jangle of sound, such as he would expect to hear in

Hell. He’s overcome by the overpowering stink of wine, perfume,

and sweat. Robes of bright scarlet and turquoise assault him.

Everyone, every man, every woman, is drunk; staggering

drunk. Children scurry amongst the patrons, collecting empty

wine bowls: even they are drunk. He cannot stand it; he weaves

through the scarlet robes, desperate to get out.

Out onto the streets, but instead of the dusk he expected

to see, the sun is still high. It is late afternoon and the

streets are alive with people shouting, screaming, pushing past

one another, plying their wares. Pickpockets weave through the

crowds like snakes, bleach-haired whores pull patrons into

corners and fornicate in full view.

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 3

Stilio stares at them in horror until he's knocked out into

the road by a crowd of men stinking of wine, singing or shouting

he's not sure which, jeering at the whores. Before he can move a

whip stings the back of his neck: a litter hurries past, carried

by naked sweating slaves. He glimpses a red-robed man in jewels

with a parasol held over his head and an expression of disdain

etched upon his face: it is a bishop.

Can this truly the place where the revered St. Paul began

his mission? Can this really be the city from which Christendom

spread?

He staggers through the endless crowds searching for the

baths, praying for comfort and refreshment. He finds one narrow

street after another, all of them hot and crowded, all of them

filled with traders, criminals and everything in between. From

the hills above great towers watch over quarter of a million

souls crammed into a sweltering warren older than the Empire

itself. A river runs through it, and in its midst is an island,

crowded with domes and temples. A massive palace dominates it;

the ancient residence of emperors, now the seat of the Caesar,

Maxim Daia, Emperor in the Oriens and enemy of Christendom.

Stilio shies away and tries to retrace his steps whilst a

red ball of fire sinks through the dust; the sun is setting.

Lanterns are lit, one after another, until every street is

ablaze with light. Soldiers emerge; hulking men with savage

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 4

faces, bright green tunics, and swords restless in their

jewelled scabbards. They even disdain their armour, for there is

no enemy to fight, only a people to oppress. With whips and

spears, they clear the way.

Fear renders him senseless: he just stands there, exposed

by the lamplight like an insect awaiting the flame. Panic

unfolds in his chest, its claws scrabbling. His jaw clenches; he

must, he must –

'Get out of the way!' A blow knocks him to the floor. When

he gets up, the soldiers have already moved on.

Run, hide.

Back at the Inn, he finds that his room is occupied. A man

and a woman are having sex: noisy, driving sex. Stilio backs

off, apologising. They both gaze at him enquiringly, and seeing

no response, they resume.

'But the room was vacant,' the landlord says, his Greek so

accented that he can barely be understood. 'Their need was

great. Surely everyone should have a little love?'

Stilio has to shout to make himself heard. 'But –'

'You thought not to partake? I'm sure they would have

obliged. This is Antioch; we're very obliging here.'

'No, I did not want to partake! I am –'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 5

– I am a Christian. The Emperor's soldiers are patrolling

the streets, looking for people like me.

'You're what? Oh, I see, you don't like women. Well, there

was a man in the room, wasn't there? I recall him, oh yes, so

masculine, so virile.'

The sweating fat man licks his lips. Stilio backs off in

disgust.

'Oh, come now, have a bowl of wine. All troubles will pass,

given enough wine. Come, drink.'

Stilio is handed a bowl, enough for two men. A rough red,

its taste masked by honey and spices.

'That's better, isn't it? That'll be five sestertii.'

Later Stilio returns to his room with his head reeling to

find his bed is now empty. He lies down in another man's sweat

and prays with the sounds of drunkenness all around him.

Afterwards, he tries to sleep.

He leaves before first light. His feet take him through

streets where even now, some of the lamps are blazing. Stilio

cringes; he feels exposed here, exposed and naked. It is wrong

for the streets to be lit like this, unnaturally wrong.

There is nothing natural about this place.

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 6

A crowd is gathered by the wall. Red-eyed guards open the

gates, nursing their hangovers with wine. Stilio blanches as he

walks with the crowd, praying that he will not be challenged.

The guards, half asleep, do nothing.

The people stay together, talking quietly amongst

themselves. He follows them as they pass beneath the long

aqueduct, through garden suburbs built into the side of the

hill, up past the great stone head, its face lost in the shade,

to a cave carved in the rock. The crowd are gathered before it,

silent and expectant. The sun rises, striking the city towers,

and there is a shout of joy from all assembled; the bishop has

arrived, cloaked in purple and gold. Behind him are the holy

vestments, carried aloft and inlaid with precious stones so that

they radiate the sun's splendour: among them, he sees an

inverted crucifix of gold and a painting of the Holy St. Peter

himself. This is the first church in Christendom, built by St.

Peter with his own hands: the first church ever to be built.

Afterwards, in the glow of sanctity, people gather to talk.

There is an instant community amongst Christians; there are no

strangers here, only unmet friends. In no time, he is chatting

with them, discovering news of the city.

'You are staying where?' There is laughter when he tells

them. 'And you are still alive?'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 7

'Brother, the harbour is the haunt of drunks, thieves and

murderers. What must you have thought of us?'

'Come, brother, let us find you safer lodgings. Then we

will show you the true Antioch.'

They take him to the Christian quarter, for Antioch is a

city of quarters. There is a Syrian quarter, a Greek quarter, a

Jewish quarter; there is even an Imperial quarter.

'That’s what the island is,' a man named Josef tells him.

'We don't go there.'

Josef finds him lodgings with a friend. Afterwards, he

guides Stilio through the streets.

'It has only been two years since I set foot in Antioch,'

he says. 'I still remember how it felt on that day. So many

people, you think! How can there be so many people?'

'Yet you seem so at ease here.'

'You get used to it. In no time, you will be at home here,

just as I am.'

Stilio looks around him, amazed: here in the Christian

quarter symbols of the true faith are everywhere. Icons are sold

openly and stalls bristle with pendants. Churches which make no

effort to conceal themselves, and it is all within sight of the

Imperial Palace.

A small boy cries out. As if by magic, the trinkets are

concealed, stalls are packed and hidden away. Church doors slam,
 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 8

people desert the streets. Then the soldiers appear. Casually

they stroll by, glaring with practised ferocity. Then they are

gone.

A flute begins to play. People emerge, life returns to

normal.

'We don't mind them,' Josef says, 'and they don't mind us.

This is Antioch: no one cares what you do here, not even the

Emperor. He's too busy with his new-found riches, his concubines

and all the other simpering lackeys. Oh, he drags himself from

his stinking bed now and then; he's even been known to lop off a

few heads from time to time. It doesn't last; the wine chalice

calls and he's back to the baths getting his cock sucked and all

is well with the world.'

Stilio laughs. 'A typical heathen then.'

Josef nods, smiling. 'The best friend a Christian can have

is a stupid heathen. Daia, our new Emperor, is a true friend in

that regard: his word does not run beyond the island and

everyone knows it but him! God be praised for giving him to us.'

Deftly, Josef sidesteps a man selling trinkets: relics of

the True Cross this time.

'Dross,' he says. 'Don't buy any of it. The True Cross

remains hidden from us. Maybe with God's Grace...'

'Don't you wish to find it?'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 9

Josef laughs. 'Not I,' he says. 'Antioch is enough for me:

there is holiness here if you know where to look for it. Come,

and I will show you what I mean.'

All that day they weave through the streets. Here is the

place where St. Paul brought back to life the boy who had fallen

from a window. There is the synagogue where the Jews rejected

him, severing their faiths forever. There is so much to take in.

'Beware of gilded places,' Josef warns. 'They hide their

worthlessness behind an empty show. A careful study of scripture

reveals the truth. Now let me take you to a place where Simon-

Peter...'

Stilio stays that night in a humble house in a quiet street

with pious folk. He is tired but at peace. He might stay here

awhile.

The next day is a day of work: Josef has arranged to meet

with him when his labours are done. Until then Stilio wanders

the streets, visiting the Forum of Tiberius and the grand

columned avenue which divides the city, marvelling at the cool

breeze there. He attends the great baths early to avoid the

afternoon rush, cleansing his body and soul. Afterwards, he

finds himself near one of the temples where the heathens

worship.
 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 10

It is a circular columned building without a door,

windowless and open to the air. A ceaseless hypnotic rhythm

comes from within; drums, cymbals and tambourines. A simple

pattern repeats itself again and again, building layers of

sound. It draws him in. He peers between the columns, knowing

what to expect: there will be women there, stripping themselves

naked and cavorting with multiple partners in a sexual frenzy.

Stilio's face takes on an aspect of disgust. Already he is

aroused.

This is what he sees: nakedness and frenzy as expected. Men

are dancing in great circles with their arms outstretched. Bare-

chested women are bearing whips; they are beating one another.

The rhythm carries on relentlessly rising and falling, becoming

ever more complex, hypnotic and throbbing. He is erect; he

presses himself against the cool marble column. His heart beats

faster, his breathing quickens. He wants to join them, he wants

to lose himself in their pain.

The music stops. The shrill voice of a eunuch speaks.

'Let us mourn the fruit of thy womb, O Cybele! Behold; thy

son Attis died for the sins of man! Bear witness to our grief!

Take pity upon us! Let thy son be reborn unto the land!'

The flagellates reply as one. 'Let Him rise again!'

'Praise be to the Mother of the Firmament!'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 11

'Let Him rise from the earth and walk upon it! Let Him

ascend to the heavens and return to Your sacred embrace!'

The music starts and the dancers begin again. But it is not

the blasphemous prayers nor the dancing that causes Stilio to

turn away in horror, it is the faces he sees amongst the

flagellates. There are people he recognizes from the church

procession yesterday; those are Christian faces.

Stilio flees the temple with his mind in torment and his

body humming with desire. He stares at the floor looking for an

escape, but there is no relief, only a message imprinted in the

dirt; follow me, it reads. It spurs him on. The words repeat

themselves again and again, forming a trail which leads out into

the street. The crowd grows thicker, the words become smudged by

the passing feet, but he can still make out their meaning so he

follows them. He follows until the words are lost and he can

stop.

There she is, the bearer of the message. Robed in scarlet,

her face shines like a lamp in the shadows. She catches his eye

and uncovers her head to reveal her bleached-blond hair. She

smiles and lifts up her robe, revealing herself beneath it,

naked and without shame. She beckons towards a narrow alley and

he goes to her.
 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 12

He stops. Someone is lurking behind her. There; a face

which ducks away, too fast and too late. Her pimp. Their purpose

has been revealed: they mean to rob him.

He turns away, breathing quickly. That was close, too close

to sin.

'What is this? Brother, I had thought to give up on you.'

It is Josef. 'Come with me,' he says. 'If God is with us,

we may reach the place before nightfall.'

'Where are we going?'

Josef smiles. 'I am taking you to Tarsus, to the place

where Jonah was spewed forth by the whale.'

Josef has managed to procure passes through the city gates.

They stroll by the river, along a road pleasantly shaded by

cypress trees. Noon turns to afternoon, a time when people

linger over food or else go to the baths. Soon they have the

road to themselves.

Time passes pleasantly in talk. Josef reveals he has

studied the books of four Apostles; Simon-Peter, Matthew, Luke,

and John, as well as the letters of St. Paul.

'That is what drew me to Antioch,' he says. 'The libraries!

One mind cannot encompass the knowledge they contain! Brother,

you must remind me to take you there.'

'Where are we going?'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 13

'Not far.' Josef waves his hand north. 'There is a beach

between here and Tarsus. Some say you can still see the jawbone

of the great Leviathan –'

'But Antioch is inland. Where is the sea?'

Josef laughs. 'Inland? Brother, that is because you came

from the south. In the north, the sea is much closer. Now once

we have seen the whale –'

'I want to go back now.'

'No, you don't,' Josef replies, smiling.

'Yes, I do.'

From his billowing robes, Josef draws a long knife. 'No,

you don't. Now get off the road.'

In a grove of cypress trees, Josef robs him of everything

he has.

'Not much is there? Makes me wonder why I bother

sometimes.'

'Traitor.'

'Oh, shut up. Don't take it so personally.'

'Judas.'

'Yes, I've read his books, too. You should read them if you

get the chance, they’re most revealing.'

'You betray our Christian fraternity. You steal from

innocent men.'
 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 14

'Let me tell you this, Judas had one thing right. When all

is considered, only wealth is worshipful. Look at the Church of

St Peter, do you really think it is Christ they are worshipping?

No, it is the gold, the precious paintings and the glittering

stones.'

'Blasphemer.'

'But then again, Judas did one thing wrong; he left

witnesses.'

Two men approach them, dressed in green, carrying swords

with jewelled hilts: soldiers.

'Help!' Stilio cries. 'This man is trying to rob me!'

The men do not change their pace. 'Hello, Josef,' one of

them calls out. 'Got some more meat for the pot, have you?'

One of the soldiers holds Stilio captive whilst the others

divide the spoils.

'Why do I get the least share?' Josef complains. 'I do all

the work.'

'Because we've got the swords,' says one.

'If you don't like it, we can always send you where he's

going,' says the other.

'What shall we do with this one? Slave or martyr?'

'Won't fetch much as a slave. Can't get any useful work out

of him, anyone can see that.'

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 15

'I am a man of letters –' Stilio says.

Someone thumps him in the kidneys. For an instant, the

world goes black.

'That's decided it, he's worth more dead. What do you

think?'

Josef shrugs his shoulders.

'Right, you. Today's your lucky day: you get to be a

martyr. That's what your kind want, isn't it? Well, we're happy

to oblige. We've got your bed ready –'

'Metal bed –'

'Yeah, metal. We'll light a fire under it; make sure it's

nice and warm –'

The other laughs. 'Nice and hot you mean! Glowing hot!'

'– and before you meet your god, you'll have a nice lie-

down.'

'Don't they smell good when their flesh starts to roast?

Makes the mouth water just thinking about it.'

'Yeah, good enough to eat. Shame, that.'

‘And what a joyful noise they make when they start to

sing!' Sniggers all around.

'Yeah, they can't hold back, can they!’ Laughter; Stilio

tries not to be sick.

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 16

'How long do you reckon this one'll sing for? Before he

starts screaming, I mean?' The man holding Stilio giggles into

his ear.

Without warning, Stilio drives his heel back into the

soldier's knee. It makes a horrible crunching sound; the man

screams and loses his grip. Stilio wriggles free and sprints

through the trees, away from the road. The men shout behind him,

but he keeps on, outrunning fear.

Fields appear. He leaps over ditches, clambering up the

terraces, through fields of grain and barley with the shrill

cries of insects all around him. Ahead, the hills rise steeply,

shrouded with trees. Rocky cliffs loom over him.

Voices fall away; the remaining soldier, fat and heavy,

cannot keep up. But Josef can. Josef runs silently behind him.

Stilio weaves between the trees as the hill rises, every

breath coming short. With every gasping breath, a horrible

animal sound. Pain in his lungs, pain in his throat. He cannot

stop.

Rocky ground. Feet jar against the stones, his arms, his

legs ache, he is growing weak. But there is a path here, a path.

Josef is gaining on him, his robes billowing.

Stilio climbs higher. The sun beats down, making every move

a torment. He glances back.

Josef is directly below him.

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 17

Desperately, Stilio grabs a rock, blindly, he throws it. He

stops, wild-eyed with his chest heaving, looking down. The

incessant sound of cicadas fills the air. The remaining soldier

is slowly crossing the fields, far below, but Josef has

vanished.

He retraces his footsteps. Josef is sprawled across the

path, unconscious. Blood flows from a cut in his head but he is

breathing. Stilio crouches by him as he goes through his purse,

taking back what was stolen from him, taking the rest in

recompense. Finally, he speaks.

'Repent of your sins, brother,' Stilio whispers, 'and sin

no more.' He walks away, hesitates, returns.

Then he kicks Josef over the side of the cliff.

[Work on this bit. Make reference to a ‘furtive scrabbling

for survival’?

Stilio has sinned. He has committed murder. Another

unpardonable sin to add to his list of unpardonable sins.

He doesn’t know why the soldiers haven’t come for him. He

would have expected them. He would’ve welcomed the chance to

atone for his sin in martyrdom. He prays for direction but God

is silent. He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know he feels

nothing. He expected to feel the enormity of his sin weigh down

 Fraser Malaney / A FURTIVE SCRABBLING / 18

on him. He expected to feel an awful sense of emptiness. But he

feels nothing. Why does he feel nothing?

He knows that he must atone for his sin, for his lack of

remorse. The only place he can do that is in the lands to the

south, where Jesus once walked. Perhaps in that place of purity,

he can be washed clean. Only then will he be worthy of God’s

Grace. Perhaps then, he can forgive himself.]

The moon has risen before Stilio finally stands and walks

to the edge of the cliff. He sees nothing; there is nothing to

see.

Maybe the soldiers lost his trail: maybe they decided to

find prey less troublesome to pursue, or maybe they found

Josef's broken body at the foot of the cliff. Maybe God is

telling Stilio that the death of a sinful man will not mark his

soul, maybe. One thing is certain; no one will follow him now.

Stilio turns away. Away from Antioch and its soldiers and

parasites; away from sin.

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