Barracuda
‘Tsiolkas writes with compelling clarity about the primal stuff that
drives us all: the love and hate and fear of failure. He is also brilliant
on the nuances of relationships. Some of the scenes in this novel about
the hurt human beings inflict on each other are so painful that they
chill the blood. At times, the prose is near to poetry.’ —Sunday Times
‘By page 70 I realised that I was reading something epic and supremely
accomplished. Thereafter, I found myself more and more admiring
of the subtle, profoundly human way that Tsiolkas was handling his
subject. And I finished Barracuda on a high: moved, elated, immersed
. . . This is the work of a superb writer who has completely mastered
his craft but lost nothing of his fiery spirit in so doing. It is a big
achievement.’ —Guardian
The Slap
‘Once in a while a novel comes along that reminds me why I love to
read: The Slap is such a book . . . Tsiolkas throws open the window
on society, picks apart its flaws, embraces its contradictions and
recognises its beauty, all the time asking the reader, Whose side are
you on? Honestly, one of the three or four truly great novels of the
new millennium.’ —John Boyne, author of The Boy in the Striped
Pyjamas
‘The Book of the Summer. Now and again a book comes along that
defines a summer. This year that book is The Slap . . . The Slap
has one elusive, rare quality: it appeals to both genders . . . The
ideal summer read: escapist, funny and clever writing by a brilliant
Australian novelist.’ —Telegraph (UK)
‘Strikingly tender . . . It claws into you with its freshness and truth.’
—Sydney Morning Herald
‘Think Tom Wolfe meets Philip Roth. Or The Sopranos meets The
Real Housewives of Orange County.’ —LA Times
‘Tsiolkas achieves an unusual double vision that both drives the story
forward at speed and generates much of its pathos. We are presented
with a cast of characters whose situation reflects the affluent, inse-
cure, globalised Australia of the early twenty-first century. Yet this
also makes the novel transportable into other cultures; it is at once
quintessentially Australian, and a story that resonates in our own
brittle and commercialised culture.’ —Times Literary Supplement
‘With The Slap Tsiolkas secures his place as one of our most impor-
tant novelists . . . By painting an Australia we can recognise in
language so good you don’t notice it, Tsiolkas has written an absolute
ripper.’ —The Age
‘One of the most astute chroniclers and critics of our age and culture,
Tsiolkas is a passionate, poetic, political polemicist, but his critiques
take the form of enthralling stories that are peopled with characters
that bounce off the page.’ —Adelaide Advertiser
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Bh3176M-PressProofs.indd xiii
Rome
Philippi
Neapolis
Ephesus
Lystra
Tarsus
Antioch
Damascus
Caesarea
Jerusalem
15/08/19 11:21 AM
Saul I
35 ANNO D OMINI
She struggles, falters, wavers to her feet. This time she sees
an old man and a boy standing beyond the circle in the shade
of a laurel. From the splashes of dye across their cheeks she
recognises them as deathworkers. They will return her body to
the earth when her soul ascends to the Lord. A little beyond
them stands the man who tricked her. How gentle his questions
had been; his sympathy almost womanly. She fixes her gaze on
him, his broad forehead, the receding coils of his black hair. He
looks away as soon as her eyes meet his. Fear. She sees that he
too is filled with fear.
The young man who struck her has raised his arm, stone
held high above his head.
‘Adulteress!’ he roars. ‘Ask the Lord to pardon your wicked sins!’
The circle of men rumble assent. At the meanness of that
charge, she begins to weep. Her eyes turn again to the man who’d
seduced her with his false kindness. She had believed him to be
as she was, bonded to the Saviour, trusting in the marriage of
their fellowship, understanding that she was now married to her
brothers and sisters. He had nodded in fierce agreement, as if
he too comprehended that real marriage wasn’t the ugly, forced
rutting she had experienced with her husband. After discovering
friendship, knowing kindness, awaking for the first time to a
world in which men need not be cruel, how could she return
to that vileness? And he had nodded and agreed. She had been
drawn to his sympathy. Yet it had been his testimony which had
condemned her.
Her innocence and anger fortify her. She is no whore and
she has not betrayed the Lord. She faces her accuser. He will not
look at her. Her mouth is dry but she must speak. She doesn’t
care about the other men in the circle. She wants that coward
to hear her words.
‘If you are without sin, then cast your stone.’
One of the men steps forward. ‘Shut your ungodly mouth!’
She spins to face the speaker and as she does the first rock
smashes her shoulder. She stumbles and falls. A rock slams into
her neck, it steals her breath. Another rips open her brow. And
then she hears the crack of the world splitting, as if the heavens
above are tearing. There is darkness. There is blood in her mouth.
There is a pain so terrible that she knows it is not the world that
is breaking but her own body.
And then the darkness lifts and there is light.
The men keep hurling the rocks but the girl is dead and so
justice is done.
The boy jumps to attention, peels off his tunic and skirt, then
wraps the cloth around his mouth and nostrils. Naked, he rolls
the girl over. A splinter of shattered jawbone has pierced her chin
and the split gash is the pink of meat laid on a butcher’s trestle.
Saul leans forward and retches.
The old man looks at him, then strips. Every bone is visible
through the scarred membrane of his aged skin. Years of poverty
have sculpted him into the very form of hunger. He too bends
over the body.
Saul wipes the bile from his lips and chin. ‘Don’t bother
searching her,’ he calls out. ‘She had nothing.’
The old man pokes at the body, not in the habit of believing
anyone. Then, with a shrug, he nods to the boy. The boy stands
and turns to Saul.
‘Uncle, what was her crime?’ He is Arab, both in tongue and
in the shock of the hood of flesh that collects and covers the
head of his sex.
‘She denied the Lord,’ Saul answers in Syrian, ‘the Lord of
her people. She abandoned her family. She had to be punished
for her blasphemy.’
At this, the old man snorts. ‘She was just a chick of a girl—
what does she know of blasphemy?’
He wipes his nose and rubs his hand across his straggle of
chest hairs. His next words are a sneer: ‘Did you hunt her down?
Was she one of yours?’
As if Saul were a filthy mercenary, a slave trader, a collector
of tax for the dirty Romans.
A thousand curses are on his lips. Shut your foul mouth,
you Arab piece of shit. Child of a whore. But no sound comes
forth. His head is heavy, the light is banished and the curses are
snatched from his lips. The din is a madness in his head, and
he has to cover his mouth to keep the words from escaping: If
you are without sin, then cast your stone. Brazen, unholy words;
the devil’s words. He knew those words were for him, that she
was judging him. As if he were the one who stood condemned.
‘Are you ill, uncle?’ The naked boy is before him, his hand
raised, seemingly about to touch Saul.
He jerks away from the filthy deathworker. ‘Do your foul
work,’ he spits at him. ‘You’ve been paid.’
Saul turns from them, abandons the judgement ground, and
climbs up the hill, thistles scratching across his calves. He can
hear the vile old Stranger laughing; he hears the thud as the
girl’s corpse is thrown onto the cart.
Someone calls out after him; the torrent of violence in his
head is such he can’t discern if it is the apprentice or the old man.
‘Do we bury her or do we burn the cunt?’
To earth or to fire, the girl is lost to the Lord. He does not
reply.
Death’s breath is on his skin; he can smell it. The blood and
meat and sin and poison of the girl. He wants to be careful not
to touch anyone, lest he stain them with his pollution, but the
market-sellers have set up their tables and the streets are full of
people and slaves, beggars and labourers, scavenging dogs and
bleating goats. Saul keeps close to the walls, ducks into narrow
passages to avoid contact. In this way, slowly, he weaves through
the back streets and manages to avoid the crowds. He breathes
deeply with relief. He has reached the wide marble steps leading
to the Temple. The mansion of the Lord reaches up to the
heavens, the smooth face of the rock glistens from the touch of
the sun. He smells incense and burning wood; wisps of smoke
curl around him. He unties his sandals, delivers his prayer and
enters the bathing pool.
He washes death off himself.
Finally, rocking back and forth on his knees, he begs the
Lord, the One, the only One, to cleanse him and forgive him.
I am not a filthy child killer.
farm, and begin his work of preparing hides to stitch into tents
and canvases. This is the life Saul was born to.
‘Sir,’ and the word fills Saul’s mouth with bitterness, ‘do you
need any tutors?’
Ethan has turned away. ‘No. We don’t need you this season.’
Saul groans as he descends the Temple’s steps. How dare he
believe himself worthy of priesthood? Though silently, he cursed
in the Lord’s house. He could wash and scrub at his skin for
years and he would never be washed clean.
Saul takes his nephew’s chin, forces the boy to face him. ‘Please
tell me that there was no letter. Tell me that he had memorised
the message from your comrades.’
Gabriel does not answer.
His father strikes at his son. ‘You play at being warriors,’ he
snarls. ‘You emulate and crawl after those arse-fucked Zealots
but you are not men, you are just boys. And ignorant children
at that. It’s no wonder that the Romans eat us alive.’ He spits
into the fire. ‘Your friend has probably already betrayed you.’
Channah wails.
Saul turns to his nephew. ‘Tomorrow we will have to leave for
Tarsus. You will stay at your uncle Samuel’s house and he’ll find
you work as a labourer until the skinning season starts. Then
we can work together. In Tarsus you’ll be safe.’
Gabriel begins to protest but Saul cuts him off. He knows what
he has to do. He is not the helpless eunuch his sister believes
him to be. He will save this boy; he will not allow the Romans
to take him.
‘You have no choice in this matter, son,’ says Saul. ‘You will
stay with your uncle and I will ask him to find you a bride.’ He
grabs the boy by his nape, brings his face close. ‘Your father is
right; you are no warrior.’
It is a mistake. The boy struggles, breaks free and leaps to
his feet. ‘How dare you speak of right and wrong? You who do
the Council’s bidding, who hunts fellow Jews for those depraved
priests? They’re not our rightful priests—they’re lackeys of the
false king and of the Strangers.’
The youth’s eyes burn with his mother’s lethal fire. And like
hers, his voice is filled with scorn. ‘You hunted a girl for them,
didn’t you? We’ve heard. She was a child and still they stoned
her. How do you know what makes a warrior? You’re a lackey to
lackeys. My mother is right: you are not a man. We don’t need
your counsel and we don’t need your filthy blood money.’
Saul can’t answer. His nephew’s words have wound tight
around his heart. Shame is burning into him. He loves this
boy as a son. How often has he dreamed of Ebron’s death, so
he could truly be father to Gabriel? Reprehensible thoughts,
but he cannot stop dreaming them: this is how much he loves
the boy. But the boy detests him, as does their world; can think
of him only with revulsion.
Saul cannot move, he cannot speak. But Ebron is on his feet
and has grabbed his son by the hair, cuffed him and thrown
him against the wall. The dazed boy drops to the ground and
his father stands over him.
Ebron’s voice is cold, sure, allowing no dissent. ‘You little turds
think you’re better Jews than we are because you’ve been schooled
in words. I may be an ignorant worker but I know that one of
the eternal commandments is to obey your parents and elders.’
He shoots a look at Saul. ‘Isn’t that right, brother?’
He doesn’t wait for Saul’s answer. And Saul has no spirit with
which to answer.
The father, shaking, drops to his knees beside his son.
‘Boy, my boy, I am sorry to have hurt you. But you don’t
have the ruthlessness to be a fighter. I know you—I’ve raised
you. That little whore they stoned, she insulted the Lord—she
left her husband and her children. Your uncle did her a mercy
to denounce her.’
Ebron strokes his son’s face. ‘You say you hate the Strangers,
that you want to expunge them from our lands. Have you got
your uncle’s courage? Can you put a knife to the throats of the
bastards the Roman soldiers are breeding in the whorehouses
behind their camp? Can you hold a blade to an infant’s neck and
cut it?’ He kisses his son. ‘That is the kind of warrior we need,
my son, my sweet boy. Can you do that?’
The boy coughs, spits blood. But his hand tightens around
his father’s arm. Trying to steady his breathing, struggling to
form words, he finally says, ‘I will do as you say.’
Not as I say, thinks Saul, never as I say. I will never be his
true father. You are not a man. The truth of these words slam
into him. They are right: he has no son, he has no home; as
he is constantly travelling between Jerusalem and Tarsus, he is
always in the keep of his sister and his brothers. He is pitiful; he
creates nothing. What an absurd vanity to hope that he could
ever earn Gabriel’s respect.
Saul gets to his feet, a storm in his head and a violent trembling
in his body. He must flee this house. He stumbles to the door
but his sister grabs at him. She kisses his hands, thanking him,
praising him, forgiving him. The four winds roar in his head as
he searches his tunic, finds the coins, lets them fall to the dirt
where they belong—the evidence of his sin and his unmanning.
But even as he does so he knows he has kept back two pieces of
the thin metal, cold against his heart. The darkness has been
expelled from the house but as he pushes through the door, he
understands that the darkness is in him, that it comes from deep
within himself.